


up my sleeve

by antkidu



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Angst, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Dark Academia, Drugs, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Self-Harm, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 73,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27810520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antkidu/pseuds/antkidu
Summary: Hisoka’s chest tingled ... Just before he opened the last door, he pulled Illumi close and kissed him on the mouth, marveling at how quickly Illumi folded against him, how soft he felt in his arms. “You’ll be the death of me,” Hisoka said, chest heaving.Illumi pulled back, licked his lips, and said, very seriously, “That’s a distinct possibility.”-or-Hisoka Morow, a genius academic with a specialization in the modern occult, takes on a research assistant whose presence renders Hisoka's research a matter of life and death.
Relationships: Hisoka & Illumi Zoldyck, Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck
Comments: 274
Kudos: 297





	1. Professor Morow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He smiled lightly to himself, almost laughed. 'This is why you’re not the heir.'

“So,” said Hisoka Morow, crossing his legs and leaning over the desk so that his shirt, lazily buttoned, revealed the curve of a prominent collarbone. He licked his finger and smoothed a loose red hair back into its coiff.

To his delight, his new research assistant, Illumi Zoldyck, did not display even a flicker of interest. Empty-eyed, and beautiful: just Hisoka’s type. _And isn’t there something familiar about his name?_

“What interests you about my research?”

“Nothing.”

 _Great._ Hisoka’s leg began to bounce, the heel of his shoe tapping on the graying wood floor. For this meeting, he had borrowed the department chair’s office, appropriating a small corner of the large cherrywood desk for his files and a much larger one for his alligator tote bag. Luckily, he was quite familiar with the Chair’s personal library, and had liberty to use it, since he himself had donated over half of the volumes upon hiring.

Hisoka, or, Professor Morow, as he was currently called, was something of an academic prodigy, earning his PhD in Religious Studies and Anthropology at the impossible age of twenty-five. Over the years, he had earned multiple grants and, as a result, had amassed an extensive collection of texts on his specialty: the modern occult, all of which he had given to the university to curry favor for tenure. It seemed to be working.

Hisoka’s only detractor in the eyes of the administration was that he was also something of a notorious slut.

Last quarter, he had slept with no fewer than five faculty members across varying departments, all of whom had quit or gone on sabbatical, and two research assistants, who promptly dropped their majors to free themselves from his influence.

“It’s all the same to me if you leave,” Hisoka had told each of them, flashing his long snake’s smile. “You are boring now that I’ve had you.”

Some had cried, some had slapped; an associate professor had attempted to set Hisoka’s car on fire. Luckily for Hisoka, the department had turned a blind eye to the drama, as they could quite literally not afford to lose him. As the situation would have it, Hisoka’s personal finances had also revived Religious Studies at Yorknew University.

This ‘Illumi Zoldyck’ likely did not know of his new advisor’s reputation, having missed more classes than he’d attended for his entire academic career. That is why such a specimen’s application to assist him had appeared crisp in Hisoka’s mailbox last Monday; a surprise that had taken Hisoka till now to realize the pleasantness of. 

“You wrote in your proposal that you were interested in, ah...” Hisoka glanced back down at Illumi’s file. “...the influence of modern occultism on western society... I assume that’s why you picked me as your advisor?”

“I didn’t pick you. I was forced to take on a research assistantship to graduate.” Illumi crossed his arms over his chest, and Hisoka’s eyes crawled over him.

Despite Illumi’s meticulous appearance, the nail beds on his left hand were picked raw. He smelled faintly of cigarettes. But those were the only imperfections that Hisoka could detect. Otherwise, Illumi was all fine bones, arched brows, and pin-straight hair which would catch the light and glisten if the boy had not been sitting as still as a pond in Eden. Just Hisoka’s type. _But how to crack him?_

“Very well…” Hisoka began thumbing through the file. _If only it had come with a photo. I would have read it like the Nobel prize in Literature._

“Yes, it says here that you…” Hisoka narrowed his eyes. _Time to play._ “You are twenty-four. You have struggled to graduate because of the cruel combination of a natural antipathy for working for others, and the fact that you were placed on medical leave for two semesters, once your first year, and once… your third. You have failed and repeated no less than four classes; you are on academic probation, but your exam scores are all near-perfect.”

Hisoka looked up through bright lashes, cocking an eyebrow. The only indication that Illumi was phased was a thin line between his brows.

“I do not understand how any of this is relevant to religious studies.” The corner of Illumi’s mouth twitched.

 _Damn._ Hisoka cleared his throat, worked his jaw to coax down a puckered smile. He had half-expected this. If his strange academic record wasn’t evidence enough on its own, Illumi did not strike him as the typical eager-to-please assistant.

“I suppose it isn’t.” Hisoka would concede for now. “In any case, we are stuck with each other, so we may as well try to get some work done. I am going to loan you a few books, a collection of primary source documents, and send you some articles to get you familiar with the topic I’m researching. I’ll expect ten pages of notes by next…”

Hisoka twisted to glance at the calendar on the wall behind him. It wasn’t even on the right month. “...by, um, this time next week which is…” 

“Thursday,” Illumi interrupted. He had a bit of cuticle skin pinched between a thumb and a forefinger. Hisoka cringed, patted down the impulse to pull Illumi’s hands apart. 

“Yes…” Hisoka pawed through the papers on his desk until he found a sticky note to write himself a reminder. “Ten pages of notes by next Thursday. Anything which sticks out to you. I’m a bit between projects right now, so you’ll have quite a bit of flexibility...” He rose and glided to his bookshelf. _This should be good._

Illumi did not ask any questions. He only sighed when Hisoka finished piling books on the desk in front of him, and eyed the stack suspiciously before gathering it up and leaving without a word.

His glossy black hair swayed behind him as he pushed through the door; his heels clicked and Hisoka noticed that his boots had quite the platform. The supple backs of his legs tensed visibly with each step, but, to Hisoka’s dismay, his ass was covered by an oversized cable-knit. Hisoka leaned his cheek on the base of his palm, tapped his shoe on the floor. 

A moment later, Illumi appeared again, a pointed shoulder in the doorway, a white hand curled around the frame, the swoop of black hair and an eyebrow. “By the way, Professor, the second time was not medical leave. But the rest were good guesses.” His tone was flat, but his eyes sparked faintly.

Hisoka’s eyebrows jumped and he grinned into his palm. _So he will play after all._ “I will do better next week.” _This will certainly be an interesting semester, my little research assistant._

When Illumi was gone again, Hisoka slid his pink MacBook from his tote, the name Zoldyck at his fingertips.

  
  


_\---_

Illumi’s mind was jumping between rage and curiosity. On one hand, he knew he should not have let his brother Milluki draft his research assistantship application. At the very least, he should have looked at it before submitting it. If that professor was really as smart as he’d seemed, Illumi would soon be under a microscope.

But then, Milluki’s application had thrown him for something of a loop, and it had been years since Illumi had felt even a beat of interest in anything, and _it might be interesting to be inspected by that man,_ he thought. _As long as he does not find out about…_

His scowl returned. _No, it would be nothing but a hassle… he’s too…_ Illumi could not place a word, or even an abstract concept to describe Professor Morow. Evil did not quite seem to fit. _Observant? Calculating? Cunning?_

_Ah, I need to get myself under control._

Displays of emotion were not appropriate. Though, to the outside observer, Illumi looked about as unruffled as a pressed shirt as he crossed Yorknew U’s campus.

Blank-faced or not, however, several moonlike eyes swiveled to stare at Illumi when he thumped into the silent library on his three-inch platforms. He glanced nervously toward the circulation desk, suddenly remembering that he owed them a prodigious amount of money.

When he was comfortable with the knowledge that no library staff seemed to recognize him or care about all the materials he’d lost, Illumi dumped the books in his arms onto the first available table. His stomach was tingling.

 _A fucking hassle._ He breathed a sigh and a girl who had been staring at him from a table over jumped.

Eyes always followed Illumi everywhere he went, a mix of amusement and disgust, he thought.

 _I can’t help looking like a freak,_ he scowled inwardly as he cracked open the first book, “Modern Magicks” by Isaac Netero. _Although I suppose I could cool it with the platfor--_

 _Shit. Netero. Shit._ Illumi had half a mind to forsake his studies yet again just to hop on a plane and ring Milluki’s neck.

Isaac Netero was a personal friend of his grandfather Zeno’s, one of the few occultists who actually practiced Nen.

 _Is this book supposed to be some kind of joke? God, this is going to be more of a disaster than I thought._ Illumi had been estranged from his parents for five years now, had tried to forget all about the practices which had threatened to ruin his life. He flipped feverishly to the index. _Surely not… surely n--_

And there they were:

Zoldyck, Kikyo.

Zoldyck, Silva.

Illumi sunk his nails into his palm, feeling the wet of blood on his fingertips. Pieces were flying together in his mind, and though he was forcing his aura down, he saw a lock of his hair begin to float. _It would feel so good to just lose it right now._

_No, that’s Silva talking._

He closed his eyes, smoothed his hair down with a slick, bloody palm, and swallowed his aura. It stung as it burrowed back into his skin, along with the echo of Silva’s final words in his ears, “Even if you can manage to graduate, you’ll _never_ escape this family.”

He had been so desperate to get away that he had not put much thought into the requirements-- graduate from Yorknew with a major in religious studies, and we won’t ask after you again. No, you cannot use a false name. _Of course they orchestrated this. Milluki must be in on it too._

Grinding his teeth, Illumi flipped to the pages that mentioned his family. He exhaled. Netero had portrayed each of them, Kikyo, Silva, and Zeno as anthropologists, only witnesses to occult happenings.

‘Nen believers,’ Kikyo warned the reader in one passage, ‘are willing to go to any lengths necessary to prove their powers are real.’ It was almost laughable.

 _What is the point of this? Surely my parents did not commission an entire book to play a sick joke on me._ He picked at his cuticles, focused on loosing new strips of skin. 

_Maybe I’m just being paranoid._

He closed the book. 

Only one other source mentioned the Zoldycks, but it was enough to unleash a new stampede of worries. A torn sheet of paper, possibly from a hotel notepad, covered in Cyrillic, stuck in a plastic sleeve.

He had found it stuffed in the center of a large volume on Azian witches, so it was possible that Professor Morow didn’t even know it was there.

Though his parents had tried their hardest to get him to learn, Illumi’s Russian was a pittance, and he could only make out a few words -- _нэн, странная магия, семья Золдик_ . Nen, strange magic, and the Zoldyck Family. A smeared, bloody fingerprint in the corner. He frowned and removed a string of skin from his left index finger, leaving a sting and a stripe of gloss.

 _Someone must’ve gotten sloppy._ He pocketed the slip. 

Writing the notes only took Illumi a few hours. Another thing Professor Morow had gotten right about him-- it was not that he was a poor student. He could make quick work of university if he’d devoted the proper attention.

_And if I wasn’t a magnet for disaster._

He purposefully wrote down almost nothing which would direct Hisoka’s research toward Nen, instead focusing on panhellenic paganism and the resurgence of neo-Babylonianism in Glam Gas.

He rehearsed what he’d say to a smiling Professor Morow in his head, imagining how he’d keep the tone from his voice and the depth from his eyes, and then, how the professor would leer at him.

Would Morow steer the conversation away from research? Illumi hoped so. But the stress of his early discoveries, the lingering worry that somehow he was walking blind into his parents’ machinations, made him want to drink himself blind. 

He smiled lightly to himself, almost laughed. _This is why you’re not the heir._

Illumi finished a few pieces of homework for his five other classes, and left the library as the sun was setting. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. Glasgow smiles rusted at the base of each nail on his left hand. His palm still stung.

But soon, Illumi would be spread-eagle at the back of some bar, his mind drowning in the thick of a forty. 


	2. Cemetery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Illumi didn’t answer, he gave a toast, “To the occult.” They downed the absinthe and Illumi had to fight the urge to cough at the pungent anise tang, the sudden explosion of bitter warmth in his throat and chest.

_ Silva and Kikyo Zoldyck are Padokean socialites and anthropologists best known for their investigations into secretive communities of people they have dubbed ‘Nen believers.’ They have appeared in multiple documentaries and made significant contributions to a chapter in Isaac Netero’s“Modern Magicks”on contemporary utopianism. The head of the family is Silva’s father Zeno Zoldyck, who oversees The Zoldyck Fund at Kukuroo Mountain. The Zoldyck Fund supports various artistic and research endeavors, along with public initiatives... _

_ I knew the name was familiar,  _ Hisoka thought. Though it was just published last year, “Modern Magicks” was easily the most influential Religious Studies book of the decade, and had given Isaac Netero a godlike status in academia. Before his catapult to fame, Netero had been Hisoka’s mentor, guiding his research, steering and promoting his publications, helping him curate his library. But Hisoka hadn’t seen the old man since “Modern Magicks,” and the distance had given him the space to build his own, independent reputation.  _ Where is little Illumi…  _ Hisoka scrolled down past the description of the Zoldycks’ elaborate financial contributions until he reached a small section titled “Family History.” 

“Found you!” Hisoka said aloud to himself.  _ You  _ was a grainy photograph of an elegant, if gaunt, black-haired woman standing next to a hulking beast of a white-haired man. Between them, partially cropped, was a boy with unforgettably empty eyes. The caption read: Kikyo, Silva, and their eldest son, 1999. “Their eldest son Illumi,” Hisoka finished, proudly. 

He did not know if it was intriguing or surprisingly humdrum that Illumi was so blue-blooded, simply following in mommy and daddy’s footsteps. He’d pegged the boy for the insecure-model-type, all anxiety-addled apathy, suicidal tendencies, maybe some daddy issues thrown in the mix, but his family put Illumi’s academic habits in a new light.  _ He doesn’t even need this degree. He could sit back and put his feet up forever with this kind of money.  _ He tapped his chin with a pointed nail.  _ Well, at least I don’t have to feel too guilty for what I’m about to do... _

But then, Hisoka had met The Zoldycks in passing at a conference, and even he’d been struck by their eccentricity. Despite having no visual impairment, Mrs. Zoldyck constantly wore cartoonishly large blackout sunglasses, and Mr. Zoldyck looked like he’d been ripped from a Viking fantasy novel.  _ They couldn’t possibly be stable parents. _ Hisoka thought almost gleefully of Illumi’s ruined cuticles and hummed as he packed up his belongings. The department chair would be back from his lunch break in a few minutes, and Hisoka did not want to be there when he discovered half of his library checked out to a student. 

Hisoka cancelled his afternoon seminar on his way to the car. Nothing got in the way of Professor Morow in the tear of research, and his next round of searching would be best conducted from his own wifi, away from any prying eyes.

_ \--- _

Illumi’s studio smelled like soil and water damage. Across from the door, a cluster of wilted house plants were gathered in front of a single wide window which overlooked an alleyway full of garbage. The light by the door was out and the lock stuck, so when Illumi shouldered his way in, his shoe caught on the tip of a pile of clothes so large that he had to white-knuckle the door frame to keep from wiping out.  _ Damn. I thought that was a shadow.  _ He reeled forward and slapped the light switch for the central fan. After a few tired electrical cracks, yellow light flickered on and the fan began to crawl slowly, sending armlike shadows in circles around the filthy room. Half-full beer bottles, cigarette butts, plates, and, of course, the plants. Illumi pressed his lips together.  _ I’ll have to do something about this mess so that I don’t fall and die when I come home tonight.  _ Then he chuckled at himself, covering his mouth out of habit.  _ A fitting end for a Zoldyck. _

In moments, Illumi was cross-legged on the counter next to his bathroom sink, carefully lowering his last pinky into a dish of black dipping powder. His nails had finally grown long enough to decorate, but he had to bandage the edges to keep the bonding solution from stinging his destroyed cuticles. When he was finished, his hands looked strange: long white fingers, thin camel-colored wraps opening to glossy, pointed nails. Illumi blinked.  _ Witch hands,  _ his mother had called them, and for a moment, he considered removing the nails entirely for the full psychotic effect. Instead, Illumi reached for the small makeup back stuffed in the corner behind the sink, and pushed Kikyo’s voice…  _ oh Illumi, your eyes are too large for makeup…  _ from his head.

_ I’ve had just about enough of my parents for one day, and they’re not even here.  _

Illumi made quick work of his makeup, before insecurity could get the better of him: a light press of blush on his cheeks and the tip of his nose, a swipe of gloss over his lips, highlight on his Cupid’s bow and eyelids. No mascara, no eyeliner. Kikyo was right about some things. When he was finished, Illumi slid down off the counter, swung around the divider and plunged into the single pile of clean, though hideously wrinkled, clothes on his bed. 

Twenty minutes later, Illumi did a quick line on his bathroom sink, exhaled as his pupils expanded and his heart thumped against his ribcage. Twenty-one minutes and he was gliding down the stairs, a moonlit stream in his silk jumpsuit which plunged down to his navel, clung to his waist, and flowed over quick long legs, slender stilettos. A lock of hair hung daintily between his eyes, and over the point of his shoulder. During the short walk to the bar, Illumi kept his eyes fixed to his phone, pushed through the stares and jeers.  _ I know I’m a freak,  _ he thought. He had no notifications and his Instagram feed displayed photos from several days ago.  _ I should call Killua.  _ He didn’t. He kept his free hand in a fist to keep from picking at the bandages around his cuticles.

The Cemetery Bar loomed over D Street, a massive, gutted penthouse which glowed purple and green in the night. Illegally zoned and invite-only, The Cemetery was exclusively frequented by Yorknew City’s most colorful and poorly-adjusted young bluebloods looking to get back at their parents. The only rules of engagement past the invite were ‘don’t lose your copy of the key,’ and ‘DON’T BE A BITCH,’ -- the second of which glowed in lime green blacklight paint on the inside of the twelve-foot door. Illumi had first been invited his freshman year at Yorknew by a silver-haired stranger who’d found him perched like a large, evil raven in the corner of a cafe. “Any reject of the Zoldycks is a friend of ours,” the stranger had said, and pressed a white keycard with an address into Illumi’s hand before disappearing.

It had been five years and countless blackouts since then. Though Illumi went to The Cemetery at least once a month, he rarely spoke to anyone on the inside save for the bartender, who called him, “Little Mouth.” 

The music bumped in the hallway, and Illumi’s pulse began to race as he pressed the keycard to the smooth, black lock. With a satisfying click, green text on the interface blinked “ENTER.” Illumi cracked the door and slid inside, silent, stone-faced, tense. 

He felt better after nestling into a lone booth in the back corner and downing half of a King Cobra in a few gulps. He’d have one more forty and another line before he would be able to stumble into the next room to dance. It was still early. City lights flashed behind him; the music could not drown out the din of traffic. To newcomers, Illumi looked spectral. To familiar faces, he looked blank and sad. 

Just as he popped the cap of the second Cobra, Illumi sensed something unusual in the room.  _ Aura? Surely not.  _ He dug his sharp fingernails into the plush of the booth and scanned the room, which, as it usually was around this time, was beginning to go blurry with cigarette smoke and mineral oil fog.  _ It smells like… bubblegum?  _ Illumi pinched his nose and let it go. The smell lingered, sweet and woozy. He eyed his Cobra, heart beginning to start again.  _ Maybe I’m going too fast. _ But the moment he doubted his senses, the smell disappeared, as if sucked from the air by a vacuum. 

Then came a silky voice which tore Illumi’s mind instantly away from the bubblegum aura. “Well hello, Illumi Zoldyck.” Illumi’s eyes, which had been fixed on the floor in his concentration, traveled up over pink alligator shoes, glossy white slacks snug around a muscular waist. A loose cotton crop-top with a star in the middle, dangling tourmaline earrings, and then, a slender jaw, an upward curving mouth. Slitted, golden eyes.  _ Professor Morow.  _ Illumi stared up at him expressionlessly. His mouth was dry. The professor held out a shot glass of green liquor. “Care to join?” 

Without answering, Illumi took the glass between a thumb and forefinger, and rose to a stand. They were nearly nose-to-nose. Hisoka gave a reedy chuckle, and his eyes narrowed even more. “How did I know I would find you here?” He crooned, knocking his glass gently against Illumi’s. When Illumi didn’t answer, he gave a toast, “To the occult.” They downed the absinthe and Illumi had to fight the urge to cough at the pungent anise tang, the sudden explosion of bitter warmth in his throat and chest. He didn’t do shots anymore, but one word from Morow and he’d broken his only rule. 

Illumi sat hard into the booth, and had to scoot when Morow slid in next to him. The professor was wearing some sweet-scented cologne, like gardenia and musk. “Finish your drink, and then let’s dance,” he said, a little lilt in his voice. And then, darker, “You do dance, right?” 

Illumi nodded mid-swig,  _ I dance,  _ but his mind was spinning.  _ How  _ did  _ he find me here?  _ Then again, Illumi probably screamed ‘Cemetery’ to anyone who knew of it. __

Professor Morow eyed the Cobra. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff.” 

Illumi sniffed. “You drink absinthe, Professor...” 

“Call me Hisoka.” 

Illumi suddenly felt very drunk.

Hisoka’s gold eyes felt like they were piercing into Illumi’s; his cheekbones looked especially sharp in the flashing lights, his nose particularly straight and sculpted. He reached over, and for a moment, Illumi thought he might stroke his cheek, but instead, he tipped Illumi’s chin up with his index finger and stared. “You’re high?” His expression was a mix of concern and amusement, red eyebrows creasing slightly, lips parting.

Illumi crossed his eyes to try and see the finger under his chin and shook his head no. “Not anymore,” he replied. It was true; he’d come down from the coke a while ago. But he felt jittery for other reasons, and he was sure his pupils were dilated. 

“I don’t normally do this,” said Hisoka, abruptly, tapping his foot. “Drink with students, I mean.”

Illumi coughed. “Yes you do.”  _ Does he think I’m an idiot?  _ He’d come up to Illumi, shots in hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world to him. And ‘call me Hisoka’ --  _ what shit.  _

“No really. Alcohol is almost never involved.” A snake’s smile. 

Illumi pressed his lips together and took another several swallows.  _ Oh.  _

And then they were on the dance floor, laced fingers, spinning and twisting around each other. Illumi’s chest was tight, his breathing shallow, but his head felt full and blissful. The lights exploded around him, and the music shook the floor. Hisoka danced quickly, with his whole body, fluid movements matching the beat, a wide smile across his face. Illumi was more demure with his movements, let Hisoka lead him this way and that, bring his hands out and up and around, against Hisoka’s arms, against his chest. The music slowed. Illumi felt something buzzing against his side, but at that moment Hisoka dipped his forehead to brush against Illumi's, and his face was all Illumi could see. Hisoka lingered there for a moment, smiling, hands traveling up to cup Illumi’s neck, then his face. His hands were burning, or maybe Illumi was burning. He wanted to smile back. He wanted to press his body to Hisoka’s and run his hands up Hisoka’s back, tangle his fingers in his hair, but he didn’t. It wasn’t right to want like that. He kept still, let Hisoka lead.

As the rhythm picked up, Hisoka pulled back and turned Illumi around, splayed his fingers out around his hip bones, swaying and pressing into his ass. He dragged his hands up Illumi’s stomach, sliding them over his shoulders in a sort of hug. The closeness made Illumi pause. Hisoka couldn’t see his face, so he let it fall from its taught stillness, swallowed a small moan as Hisoka smoothed his hands back down again, catching Illumi’s nipples between the base of two fingers, exhaling sweet breath into Illumi’s ear as he returned to grip his hips. Hisoka’s cheek was on Illumi’s neck; Hisoka’s crotch was pressed to Illumi’s ass. It was becoming impossible for Illumi to concentrate on anything other than the blurry, drunken thought of bending back and opening his mouth for a kiss, but he kept his head still, his eyes fixed on a place in the corner of the room where the light was especially bright. The buzzing returned, against his skin.  _ What… is that…?  _

The lights looked beautiful, purples, and pinks, and reds, and blues. They were merging and morphing, pulling at each other. Illumi wanted to reach out and grab for them, but they were so far away. The music was static in his ears. Nausea was curling in his stomach. Hisoka was pressing on his hips. He started to slow down, and down, and down… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello. I know I sort of implied there would be smut in this chapter. But, alas, I think this is going to be more of a slow burn. Anyway, thanks for reading.
> 
> I also want to make clear that I don't condone professor/student relationships of any kind IRL, and that I rebuke Hisoka's habits here. He is what some might call a predator. But WBK. It's Hisoka. It didn't feel right to write him totally toothless.


	3. Avian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had begun beautifully; all Hisoka had had to do was smile and suggest and he had a sloppy drunk Illumi spinning around the dance floor on the balls of his feet, moving his shoulders, swaying his hips, turning and grinding on Hisoka’s half-hard dick.

Hisoka had miscalculated. He had expected, even welcomed, the instability. He had  _ not _ expected such quiet sincerity. And now Illumi was a strand of glossy black hair sticking out from under Hisoka’s plush white duvet, and Hisoka was in quite the pickle. 

It had not been difficult to guess that Illumi’s bar of choice was The Cemetery, but even though Hisoka had been enjoying a particular streak of luck, running into Illumi on his first visit to the secret penthouse bar had been downright auspicious. That the bar had had an impressive drink selection and a pretentious, vampy playlist were just added bonuses. Illumi had looked so prim and ghostly sitting in the back corner, mouth around his King Cobra. Hisoka had told himself that he was just going to watch, sip his drink, and leave, but with every swallow, Illumi shrank more into himself, even in that incredible jumpsuit, which hugged his curves in all the right places. Oh, that milk-white chest, gleaming, exposed in the seedy club lighting, begging to be sucked and bruised. The waist, the neck, made to be gripped by strong, merciless hands. And, most importantly, the pain hidden deep behind the eyes, in the pucker of the lip. Hisoka simply  _ had  _ to pick Illumi’s scabs. So, over he’d gone, toting one shot of watered-down absinthe, and one shot of everclear, with absinthe for color. Evil, even for Hisoka. He figured Illumi would have to be a pinky finger away from blacking out in order to spill.

It had begun beautifully; all Hisoka had had to do was smile and suggest and he had a sloppy drunk Illumi spinning around the dance floor on the balls of his feet, moving his shoulders, swaying his hips, turning and grinding on Hisoka’s half-hard dick. Hisoka had been mesmerized by Illumi’s silence, the ripple of his hair, the curve of his shoulder blades as he flitted about, stealing Hisoka’s breath. Others were looking too, as if a spotlight had opened above Illumi’s head. But Hisoka had kept him close, a reach away, cupped his jaw, his waist, stole a squeeze of his ass. No matter how much Hisoka grabbed and nipped, he could not coax a single sound from Illumi’s mouth, and to his own surprise, he did not mind. He could have spent hours swaying, watching. 

And then, Illumi had teetered to a halt and looked around, pawing at his waist like he’d felt a spider. Hisoka had reached out for Illumi’s shoulder right as he stepped into a stumble, which was only prevented from declining to a faceplant with both of Hisoka’s hands; Illumi was surprisingly heavy. Fully off-balance, Illumi mumbled something unintelligible and then pitched back, folding easily into Hisoka’s arms. A few people rushed over to help as Hisoka carried Illumi into the main room, cursing under his breath. Illumi’s chest was sweaty and heaving, his eyes were fluttering. At the sight of them, the bartender, more stomach than man, had hopped the bar with surprising deftness and huffed to Hisoka’s side. “Need me to take ‘em?” Hisoka must have looked a little shaken, because he added, “Oh, he’ll be fine. Awake in a half-hour or so. Never seen Little Mouth pass out so early though.”

_ Little Mouth?  _

_ Well I guess he does have a little mouth. _

“No…” Hisoka had said, after thinking it over. “I’ll take care of him.” 

The bartender had cocked an eyebrow, looking Hisoka up and down. “You sure?”

The man’s doubt cemented Hisoka’s decision even more, though he was not sure what he would do with a blacked-out Illumi at his apartment. Just two hours ago, this might have been his dream scenario, but now, looking at Illumi’s chalky face, his half-closed eyes and slack jaw, he felt an unprecedented surge of guilt and disgust with himself.  _ Now, this is an interesting development,  _ he thought as he circled Illumi’s legs around his waist, propped his thighs on his elbows, arms around his neck -- like a father carried a child.  _ I could’ve imagined us here, but never like this.  _ He dialed his driver and rubbed the tips of Illumi’s hair between his fingers. Illumi shivered against him.  _ Oh, Little Mouth. What are you doing to me?  _

Hisoka was nursing a cup of coffee from his red armchair, a book propped on his knee, when Illumi sat up slowly, both hands clutching his head. His hair, as straight and glossy as ever, was obscuring the left side of his face, and his eyes were still closed. A stripe of morning light highlighted his cheekbones, the boyish upturn of his nose, the scoop of his elegant collarbone. Hisoka’s book fell to a close. 

Watching Illumi wake up was an experience comparable to seeing a butterfly emerge from its cocoon, clumsy and miraculous. He looked like an unusually broad-shouldered Victorian lady in Hisoka’s ruffled nightshirt, silver threader earrings from the night before, the remaining kiss of lip gloss. With languid fingers, Ilumi massaged around his forehead, rubbed and pulled at his eyes, pursed his lips, and then blinked into the day. Hisoka had been looking forward to at least a split second of hysterics when Illumi realized where he was, but all he got was a soft “Oh,” a furtive glance under the covers, and a wide-eyed return, perhaps a faint pink dust. 

“We didn’t,” said Hisoka.  _ In fact, I was the perfect gentleman.  _ “You showered and dressed yourself and didn’t utter a word.” 

“Ah.” Illumi slid from the bed and immediately stumbled. “Oh,” he said again, falling to a seat on the floor. “I…” 

Hisoka set his coffee down on the slim table tucked between his chair and the wall. “I’ll get you some vertigo medicine. Do you want any breakfast? An egg maybe? Toast? Coffee?”

Illumi looked at him, and then looked around the room. 

Finally, Hisoka felt a prick of annoyance and crossed his arms. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal for anyone--” 

Illumi rose to a shaky stand, and Hisoka immediately softened at the sight of his long legs wobbling underneath the white dress shirt he’d slept in, one sock rolled up mid-calf, the other bunched around his ankle. Hisoka could have snapped a photo right now and it’d be lovely enough for the cover of Vogue. 

“I’ll have a coffee,” Illumi said weakly. “Thank you, Professor.”

“It’s Hisoka,” Hisoka replied, turning and padding away to the kitchen, where a fresh pot was already brewed. He passed a mirror in the hall, took a sidelong glance at himself.  _ Who are you?  _ He had never made coffee for a stranger, not even his best fucks. 

When Hisoka returned, with a cup of coffee on a saucer with a non-drowsy Dramamine, a metal pitcher of cream, and a chocolate meringue nestled beside it, Illumi was straight-backed and cross-legged. Quite a different Illumi from the haunting one at The Cemetery, or the calculating Illumi in his office. A blackbird, a raven, a crow. A little-mouthed, tight-shouldered bird. Hisoka felt something heavy pressing down on his chest as Illumi reached out with both slender hands, all ten bandaged fingers, to take the saucer from him. Hisoka noticed with a stifled hiss that Illumi’s pinky finger was bleeding down into the bandage, the nail torn clean off. Illumi saw him looking and gathered his last three fingers into his fist as he brought the coffee to his lips.

Hisoka sighed.  _ What am I going to do with you?  _ He had asked himself this question at least three times, and it had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d laid eyes on Illumi. “So,” he said, taking a few steps back to lean on the windowsill. His bedroom was flanked on both sides by horizontal rectangular windows, and he had just realized that the one directly across from him, adjacent to his floor-to-ceiling mirror, was decorated with no less than seven hot pink dildos of varying sizes. He sucked his cheeks and met Illumi’s eyes at the peak of an inhale and the heat of a blush.  _ He won’t notice unless I make a big deal of it. _ “When were you going to tell me that your parents were famous and influential anthropologists of the modern occult?” 

His face didn’t change a bit, but somehow Illumi looked shocked -- something about the way he briefly paused mid-sip and resumed, seemingly unruffled. “Oh,” he said into his coffee. “I guess I didn’t realize that they were famous and influential.” 

“Well you obviously admire them--”

“No.” Flat tone, but still barbed. Possibly the most emotion Hisoka had heard from Illumi in their twenty-hour relationship. 

“Okay…” Hisoka tripped over words caught in his throat. 

“My parents are horrible people,” Illumi’s adjoiner was followed by the hollow crunch of meringue and a, “This is good, did you make this?” 

“Yep,” said Hisoka. He wasn’t done prying. “It’s very easy. Are you going to explain your leaves of--”

“Can you show me?”

_ What?  _ “Show you…?” 

“How to make this.” Illumi held up his half-eaten meringue. “I love it.” All the sincerity of a child at church. 

Hisoka’s stomach swooped.  _ This is not good.  _ “I can…”  _ I really just want to hear your rich boy sob story.  _ He sniffed and leaned further into the window so that his back brushed the warm pane. He tried to imagine Illumi twist-faced, near tears, talking about some ridiculous, wealthy-person problem-- ‘my parents fired my favorite butler and my life hasn’t been the same since.’ Or, ‘My first girlfriend, the daughter of the attorney general, fucked my dad on our private beach and that’s why I’m gay.’ Something ridiculous for Hisoka to sink his teeth into and discard, not this…  _ this _ … Guilt crawled up his spine, expanded over his face like upset ants. He thought of the bartender from the night before.  _ How many times has Illumi passed out at The Cemetery?  _

Hisoka returned to his chair, deciding not to press Illumi’s hangover too harshly.  _ We’ll be working together for the rest of the semester,  _ he reminded himself. Though, the thought of returning to talk of research felt strange.

The two men finished their coffee in comfortable silence, and when Illumi got out of bed, his legs were steady. With a brief word, Hisoka went to retrieve Illumi’s discarded jumpsuit from where he’d hung it in his closet. It felt awkwardly heavy on one side, as if weighed down by something.  _ A phone, perhaps?  _ Hisoka couldn’t resist. He patted around and fished a bulky iPhone, several generations out-of-date, from an inside pocket. The lock screen was covered in missed call notifications from someone called Kil, another called Milluki, and several unknown numbers with Padokean area codes.  _ Hm.  _ Not wanting to linger too long, Hisoka slid the phone back into Illumi’s pocket and strode from the closet, all smiles.

“This is a lovely piece,” he said, running his hands along the silk. “It was made for you to wear.”

“Thanks,” said Illumi. “My shoes?”

“Oh,” said Hisoka, following Illumi down the hall toward the entranceway. “By the door. Do you want to borrow a jacket or something to put over the jumpsuit? It’s a little, ah, formal for daywear…” 

“No.” 

To Hisoka’s surprise, Illumi stepped right into his jumpsuit and rucked it up his body in the same movement that he stripped off the nightshirt. Hisoka saw a flash of ribcage, chest, the pink of a nipple, hairless underarms. And then, Illumi was towering over him in heels, smoothing his hair down, without a hint of embarrassment. “Thanks,” he said, handing Hisoka the nightshirt. “For taking care of me and everything. I’m embarrassed. It won’t happen again. Also, I finished your notes. See you next Thursday.” 

And with a swish of hips and black hair, Illumi was gone, and Hisoka was smiling stupidly behind his closed door, listening to the click of heels grow quieter and quieter.

\---

Hailing a cab at nine AM in his sluttiest attire and highest heels was not an entirely foreign experience for Illumi. Safety wasn’t a concern, as he was confident he could body nearly everyone in Yorknew, especially if he resorted to using Nen, but each time he told himself it would not happen again, it did. The Professor had spared him the details, but he was sure that he did something foolish, exposing his id between teeth and lip, a display of filthy vocabulary, too much breath in the face. He usually didn’t lose as much time as he had last night, but he was almost happy not to have to remember.  _ Why did it have to be Professor Morow? _

Another, much smaller part of Illumi was fluttering.  _ This time is different than other times.  _ Despite the hollow pounding in his temples and the occasional wave of nausea from his hangover, his chest wasn’t empty and his ass wasn’t aching. He could still taste the remainder of the coffee sweet on his tongue.  _ Perhaps the professor is not who I thought he was.  _ When he awoke, he was sure Professor Morow had done his worst, that perhaps it had even been his plan all along, what with the snake smiles and the absinthe. But there was no sign of damage other than the professor’s dildo display, which sat untouched. Illumi swallowed and looked down at his hands.  _ You’re still a disaster.  _ He’d taken off a nail to remind himself, and the nailbed stung each time it brushed against the morning air. 

Aside from drunken antics, the moral gray between the naughty professor and his baking hobby, there was the equally confounding issue of Illumi’s parents.  _ Anthropologists?  _ That was also what Netero had called them in “Modern Magicks.” The last Illumi checked, they’d been posing as government-adjacent socialites, throwing lavish parties in ballrooms, brushing elbows and sharing cigarettes with B-list celebrities. And though he hadn’t checked in a while, he couldn’t imagine why they would have any interest in anthropology.  _ And why did Netero write that inane book in the first place?  _

_ Oh well,  _ Illumi sighed as he slid into the cab to a low whistle from the driver. Sarcastic of course.  _ My family’s antics don’t concern me anymore.  _

He stated his address in his most intimidating voice, and reached into his inside pocket to check his phone. Electricity shot through his chest as he saw the stack of notifications.  _ Shit. Shit!  _ The buzzing.  _ Shit. _

Three missed calls from Killua, one from Milluki,  _ and my parents? What the fuck is going on here?  _

Though Killua was the only Zoldyck Illumi cared for, the feeling was very much not mutual. Killua  _ never  _ called. And even if he did, he would never tell Milluki or Silva or Kikyo. If he hadn’t been in a taxi, Illumi would be launching into hysterics right now. Instead, he raised his eyebrows and exhaled. “Mind if I make a call?” 

“Go ahead, toots.” 

_ Fuck you.  _ Killua picked up on the second ring, which was even more concerning. Usually it took Illumi several calls and frantic voicemails to get Killua to pick up. 

“Illu?”

_ Illu?  _

A deep breath. “Kil, you called? I’m sorry, I was… sleeping.”

“Yeah, I’m in Yorknew with Gon.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and I think someone was tailing us last night. Someone dangerous. A Nen user.” 

Illumi dug his nails into his palm, sighing when he felt blood pool beneath them. There were only a few Nen users in the world besides the Zoldycks, and nearly all of them were criminals, extremely formidable. “Where were you? Are you safe now?” Killua was no slouch himself, so for him to feel threatened was a sign of real trouble.

“The West Side. And yeah, we changed hotels. And Kurapika’s here. We were just really scared.”

Kurapika was a contract bodyguard that Killua knew from school.  _ Can’t hold a candle to a Zoldyck, but he’s competent.  _ “Do you want me to come get you? You can stay with me?” Illumi thought of the rotting mess that was his studio. But it wouldn’t matter as long as Killua was safe. 

“That’s okay. I’ll let you know if we need you.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry I missed you.” Illumi twisted his nail deeper into his palm, scrunching his nose.  _ Fuck.  _

“Okay, bye,” there was a note of irritation in Killua’s voice. 

“Yeah, bye.” 

Illumi’s stomach was churning; saliva was filling his mouth. He pressed his bandaged fingers to his lips, closed his eyes and swallowed the rising vomit with an undetectable wince.  _ The one time. The  _ one time  _ Killua needed me, I was out grinding on my professor.  _ Eyes still closed, Illumi imagined the only things which made him feel better in times like these: taking a wrench to his fingers, rolling up onto the hood of a speeding car, the hiss of a needle emptying into his arms. He wouldn’t do any of it, would probably just lay in his own filth for the rest of the day, but each searing thought was a balm to the agony of knowing that no matter what he did, no matter how much he drank, or how far he ran, he would always be the worst of the Zoldycks. That if he hadn’t been a twisted, inhuman thing responsible for so many untreatable hurts, Killua never would’ve run away from home to be put in danger in the first place. 

Suddenly, he wanted to be wrapped in strong arms, to have his head stroked the way that Kikyo sometimes had after a particularly arduous day. He told himself not to want, to simply endure, and settled for cupping his elbows in his palms, holding his breath for as long as he could manage, staring at the seat back until it blurred. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Who is following Killua? And are Kikyo and Silva anthropologists, or aren't they? Will Hisoka ever get a chance to use his dildo collection? Will Hisoka ever teach a class? Does Illumi know what a meringue is? The mysteries continue next chapter. 
> 
> On the bright side, at least Illumi didn't fall and die over the trash in his apartment. Thanks for reading.


	4. Netero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once his guts were empty and still, he’d popped a few benzos and spent the next six hours empty-headed: forehead-down on his round kitchen table, fetal tuck between the countertop and the cabinets, a half-eaten banana balanced in the curve of his waist, listless behind the door as he debated making the trek to class.

Illumi woke up face-down on his couch to a piercing headache and quick, quiet knocking on his door. “No,” he said, loud enough for only himself to hear. “Go away.” 

There was a slow pop as Illumi unstuck his cheek from the fake leather. It was five in the afternoon. He’d missed his Friday seminar because, despite the Dramamine’s best efforts, the full force of his hangover mangled his stomach the moment he jammed himself into the apartment, and he’d spent two hours vomiting bile. Once his guts were empty and still, he’d popped a few benzos and spent the next six hours empty-headed: forehead-down on his round kitchen table, fetal tuck between the countertop and the cabinets, a half-eaten banana balanced in the curve of his waist, listless behind the door as he debated making the trek to class. The couch had won out, and now he was staring across at his trashed apartment, recently joined by an empty bottle of Perrier and a congealed bowl of Cheerios. He’d left his phone on loud, but it hadn’t made a peep. The knocking wouldn’t stop. “Fuck!” Illumi growled, wrenching himself to a seat. “Shut up!” Even his loudest voice was only a hiss. 

He had a sick thought.  _ What if it’s Professor Morow? Maybe he was looking for me on campus…  _ his heart jumped to this throat as he thought of the way the professor had watched him from the windowsill, silently sipping his coffee. How he’d hung Illumi’s jumpsuit in the closet, arranged his shoes by the door. 

Illumi stumbled into a pair of sweatpants, a wrinkled t-shirt, and wrenched the door open ready to crowd the professor into the hallway so that he didn’t see the disaster behind him. But it wasn’t Hisoka. “Oh.” Illumi swallowed his disappointment, blanked his face. 

“Ahhh,” said the stocky old man, who had taken a few steps away from the door and stood, feet together, arms crossed, like a grinning, Buddhist chess piece. “The prodigal. I found you.”  _ Isaac Netero.  _

“Hello,” said Illumi, stuffing his ruined hands in his pocket. “What do you want?” Netero had caught him at a good time. The lasting effects of the Klonopin softened what would’ve been an immediate ‘go away.’

“I was hoping to speak with you about something… rather urgent concerning one of your professors at Yorknew.” 

Illumi swallowed. “Now’s not a good time.”  _ My apartment is a human rights violation.  _

“Oh, you can’t make time for your Uncle Netero after all these years? I’ll treat you to an expensive dinner? Some wine?” Netero waggled his eyebrows. A close friend of Zeno’s, Netero had known Illumi since childhood, and Illumi had always harbored a lukewarm liking for him. He had a mile-wide mean streak, took joy in the violence of his occupation, but unlike Illumi’s parents, he balanced himself with warmth, a mischievous sense of humor. He had excellent taste, and knew Illumi was a sucker for fine dining. 

“You can’t come inside. There’s… a leak. It’s bad. Water and uh… shit. Everywhere. The whole building.” 

Netero guffawed. “Sounds bad. Go change.” 

“Yeah.” Illumi wrestled the door shut and hopped over the pile of clothes.  _ Maybe I’m finally about to find out what’s up with my parents and that fucking book.  _

He got ready at a breakneck pace, popping four Advils, rinsing in the shower, and opting for a glossy white button-down tucked into yesterday afternoon’s vinyl pants, pointed brogues. He gathered and twisted his hair at the base of his neck and stacked his ears with sterling silver: threaders, hug-hoops, a small diamond stud in his right inner helix. In lieu of rings, he covered his hands in silk gloves.  _ I look like a vampire,  _ he observed in the bathroom mirror. Last night’s alcohol had not done much for his complexion, and the day of lazing had dusted his undereyes charcoal.  _ Oh well.  _ When he reemerged in the hallway, Netero clapped him on the arm and said, “You’re looking skinny. Have you been eating well? Keeping up with your martial arts? And your--”

“No,” said Illumi. “I’d rather not talk about that.”  _ Nen. Murder. _

“Well, I’m afraid it’s going to be unavoidable today.” 

Netero drove a midnight-blue Cadillac with a roaring engine and sleek leather seats. The humming drive was making Illumi nauseous. He no longer wanted to ask about his parents, nor speak to anyone associated with them. He wished he had gone to his seminar, even if the frail professor lectured like he would drop dead at any moment. He could have found Professor Morow to drop off his notes. 

Illumi wondered if Professor Morow taught on Fridays. He must’ve been hired during the last leave-of-absence, else Illumi would probably have heard of him before. If it hadn’t been for the benzos, even the thought of that leave would’ve sent Illumi into an anxious spiral, but instead he found himself happily imagining Morow mid-lecture, coquettishly draped over a podium, chin balanced on graceful fingers, other hand spread open over the pages of a thick book.  _ He’s probably a good speaker. Dry. Funny. He definitely sleeps with students, but all the best ones do.  _ Illumi almost let himself smile. He pulled out his phone to check the course schedule, just to see if Morow had anything right now, and returned it to his pocket when he realized that his gloves prevented him from unlocking it. 

“What’s with the gloves?” Netero asked, rounding a corner toward Uptown. They would pass campus in a moment. 

“My hands are chapped,” Illumi replied, peering out the window. The chaos of the city took a breath, went tree-lined, as they passed through Yorknew U. He could see the peaked roof of Dyer Hall, the Humanities building, where he would have had all of his classes if he’d ever attended. 

“This is a nice campus. You finish this year, no?” 

“Next May, I think. If I pass.”

“Will you?”

“I think so.” 

Netero grunted approvingly. 

The old man darkened once they were sitting over amuse-bouche in the corner of Laveau, a small, dim-lit French restaurant tucked right behind the university. It whispered with piano, smelled of bread and rosemary, and was lined with closed maroon curtains, the bottoms of which gathered on the floor in velvety folds. A chandelier flickered from the center of the vaulted ceiling. 

“I hate to do this before we eat, but it is really that important,” Netero said, downing the shooter of what looked like mushroom broth. Illumi followed suit, savoring the earthy taste, though he was anxious for the waiter to return and take their wine order. Netero seemed unconcerned with wine. “You’re familiar with the Yorknew Religious Studies department, yes?” 

Illumi blinked. He should be able to nod, but the truth was, he couldn’t even name or picture the department chair, let alone any of the associates other than Morow. “It’s my concentration,” he replied vaguely. 

“And, a Hisoka Morow?” 

Illumi fought to keep the blush from rising to his cheeks. “Yes.” 

_ What is this? _

Netero lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “I have reason to believe he is on the verge of discovering the truth behind Nen users. I shouldn’t have to tell you what that could mean. For your parents, for me, for you, for Killua.” 

Illumi went cold.  _ Surely not. There was no indication that he believed my parents were anything other than anthropologists--  _

_ He found me at The Cemetery. I thought it was because he wanted to--  _

Illumi’s heart began to ache.

“Now, I don’t know how well you know this Morow, but I’m quite familiar with Yorknew’s academic community, and he has managed to uncover some very, shall we say, sensitive documents regarding your family’s activities, and may have, at one point, been witness to a job.”

Illumi felt like his head was underwater; his chest burned. He fixed his eyes on one of Netero’s gold rings.  _ Fuck.  _

He sniffed, forced his thoughts to straighten.  _ It’s Netero. _ Maybe this was a trick. Maybe he could still wriggle out. “I don’t know him. This has nothing to do with me.”  _ This could be a mistake.  _

“Oh, but it does,” said Netero. “You may have been shy in the past few years, but if the truth about Nen and the Zoldycks got out, you will be spending the rest of your life as Prometheus in a padded box. They’ll torture you within an inch of your life, wait for your wounds to scab, and then rip them open again. Killua too. If you think Kikyo and Silva were bad, you should see what the Padokean government does to Enemies of the State, such as yourself. And, believe me, they’ll catch you.” 

Illumi ran his tongue over his teeth, and with a jolt, he remembered the slip of paper he’d found in the middle of “Azian Witchcraft: A Modern Resurgence.”  _ Fuck.  _

He sighed, a ragged exhale. “Alright, so what? What do we do?” He paused, let himself frown.  _ Something isn’t adding up. _ “Wait, if this was a concern of yours, why the  _ fuck _ would you write that ridiculous book?” 

Netero rolled his eyes, but before he could answer, the waiter sidled up tableside, placing tiny plates with one oyster and a slice of lemon in front of each of them. “Have you decided on a wi--”

“The house Sauvignon Blanc, please,” replied Illumi, a bit too loudly. Normally, he would never dream of house wine on Netero’s dollar, but he had panicked.

“Same for me,” Netero followed, grinning politely. And when the waiter left, he eyed the oysters and said, “I hear these are supposed to be aphrodisiacs,” before downing his. The type of comment that Illumi might half-smile at if it had been made under any other circumstances.

“The book,” Illumi reminded, drumming a gloved finger. 

“It’s a long story,” said Netero, huffing. “But to summarize, your father needed an extensive alibi for an extremely high-profile job overseas, and since I’ve been using academia as a cover for a while now -- a game of hiding in plain sight, you see -- he asked me to help him develop one. So, a few years ago now, we started working on building a false reputation for your parents as anthropologists. The book was Silva’s idea; he seemed to think it would be too idiotic to fail.”  _ That does sound like my father,  _ Illumi thought scratching at the pad of a finger with his thumbnail.  _ He loves twisted tricks. _

Netero glowered. “The more we worked on the project, the less enthusiastic I felt about even  _ mentioning _ Nen to the academics. They are obsessed with details, those people. But, we’d put in so much work, and Silva committed to the alibi. We fought about it for months. And then…” Netero paused as the waiter returned with the wine. 

When it was tasted and poured, the waiter thanked and sent off for the next course, the old man took a generous sip and continued. “Then, your brother Kalluto was hired to  _ wine and dine _ an old friend of mine, and I, shall we say, intervened in the affair rather aggressively and prevented the, ah, _ dinner  _ from happening--” 

He must have noticed Illumi’s rapid blinking. 

“Oh, Kalluto recovered, but Silva was already quite cross with me because of the whole book affair, so he broke into my Yorknew office while I was away on business and got the book rushed to the publishers without my okay. And that’s where your Hisoka came in. A disaster.” 

Illumi sucked his cheeks.  _ Bullshit.  _

“I know what you’re thinking,” Netero said. “But it’s all true. Scout’s honor.” He stuck out a pinky after another sip. 

“Let’s say I believe you,” Illumi replied, thinking of the blood stains on the slip in professor Morow’s book. The more he thought about it, the more Netero’s story made sense. “What am I supposed to do about it? I don’t do the work anymore. I won’t.” 

To Illumi’s horror, Netero slapped the table with a heavy palm, practically crowed with laughter as everything on the table shuddered and the restaurant fell silent. “Oh, boy!” He wiped his eyes, shaking his head, and then dropped his voice back down to a whisper. “You didn’t think I was asking you to… treat him to a meal, did you?” 

Anger was rising in Illumi’s chest. He picked up his oyster and dropped it down his throat in an attempt to numb. 

“Silly boy,” Netero said, a few giggles still escaping his lips. “If he’s who we think he is, I doubt you even  _ could.  _ I simply want you to keep an eye on him for me. If he needs to be treated well, someone far more with-it than you will do it.” 

People were looking, whispering. Illumi had had enough. Even the promise of more courses and wine could not keep him. He pushed himself to a stand. “I am leaving.” 

“Alright,” said Netero, sniffing. “But I’ll be in touch. And you  _ will _ help me contain Hisoka Morow.”

“Fuck you,” Illumi hissed, snatching the Sav from its ice bath and stalking out of the restaurant before any of the staff could stop him. 

\---

“Alright ladies, time to pack it up,” Hisoka closed the book he’d been reading --a history of Neo-Babylonian rituals in rural Padokea, which he’d picked because he’d seen that Illumi had written a term paper on the subject his third year-- and raised his eyebrows at the two students who’d lingered to work on the dossiers he’d just assigned.  _ Do you have time, Professor? To stay a bit and help us if we have questions?  _ One of them had popped a top button, and the other had stretched dramatically, hiking up her skirt. 

_ Alright,  _ he’d winked, deciding to throw them a bone for effort. Students who knew Hisoka’s reputation often tried to pull stunts like this, doubtlessly in hopes of higher marks, and he took great pleasure in failing them at the final hour, if he could remember their names. 

The sun was setting outside the large lecture hall window as the girls began to pack up. For a moment, Hisoka considered a much sicker proposition than studying after hours, but Illumi’s face flashed in his mind, and he crossed his legs. He didn’t even sneak a peek at the girls’ asses as they left, chattering loudly about some party, perhaps hoping he would listen. 

The door clicked shut and Hisoka was alone, gazing at the pink and orange sunset. He worked his jaw and walked to the window, thinking of Illumi sitting on the floor next to his bed, legs too wobbly to stand.  _ I bet I could do that to him just as well as everclear would.  _ He imagined Illumi’s large black eyes glistening up at him. The classroom was on the third floor of Dyer Hall’s west wing, overlooking a summer garden on its last leg. Hisoka ground his back teeth and licked his lips, snaked a hand past his waistband. He thought of Illumi’s lips around him, the gather of tears in the corner of his eyes as Hisoka thrusted into his throat. His cock twitched, half-hard against his palm. “Mm.” 

Hisoka relaxed his body, pressing one palm to the windowpane and bending one leg, giving himself a loose tug.  _ Illumi silent below me, lithe body pink with anticipation, hands tied above his head, cock hard against his stomach. “P-professor,” he hiccups, stomach muscles pulsing, eyes squeezing shut.  _ Hisoka was rock hard in his own hand now, straining against the inside of his zipper. He undid his button and brought his cock up against himself, so that the tip was barely visible below the trail of auburn hair below his navel. He closed his eyes, drawing loose fingers up and down his length, keening at the discomfort, but unable to stop.  _ Professor Morow…  _ he heard his name in Illumi’s voice. “Ah…” 

“Professor Morow.” The voice was real, behind him. Hisoka shuttered, reclasping his button and pushing his cock to the side before whirling around, face blazing. 

Illumi was in the doorway. One half of his white dress shirt was untucked; his hair was half-up, half-hanging, tangled over his shoulders. 

“Illumi,” Hisoka breathed, taking a deep breath. The sight of Illumi had only strengthened his hard-on; walking back to his chair was pure agony. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He forced the stutter out of his voice and gritted his teeth as he sat down, balancing his chin on laced fingers and doing his best to look inconspicuous.

“I uh…” Illumi looked down at himself and hastily tucked his shirt in. “Well, I came to drop off my notes, but I just realized I left them at my apartment.” Even with his flat tone, Illumi’s lie was obvious. 

“I see,” Hisoka replied thickly, clearing his throat. “That is unfortunate.”  _ What do you really want, Illumi?  _ And then,  _ I really cannot believe my luck these days. It is almost like I’m being set up.  _ Hisoka was willing to take a hook through the cheek. “Can I drive you home?”

Illumi hesitated the way he had that morning. Nearly undetectable, but Hisoka noticed. 

“Actually,” Hisoka amended. “I must insist. The deadline for my next paper just got moved up, so I need to hear your thoughts on the reading as soon as possible. Have you had dinner?” 

“No,” Illumi replied. 

“Excellent.” 

“But Professor, I…” Illumi was walking toward Hisoka’s desk. His lips were wet, swollen-looking, like he’d been sucking on something. 

Finally able, Hisoka stood up. “Let’s talk in the car. Come on.” 

Illumi came hard and fast into Hisoka’s hand, wincing and shuddering as he went, hand pressed into the dashboard. “Good,” Hisoka whispered, as Illumi’s cock, glistening with Hisoka’s spit, pumped the last of his cum. Spent, Illumi fell back into his seat with a whimper. It had all happened in the blink of an eye, Illumi hard and flustered in the passenger's seat, mumbling halfhearted apologies. _This has to be a set-up,_ Hisoka had thought again, but when Illumi looked at him wet-eyed, mouthing, "I haven't been able to get you out of my head, Professor," Hisoka developed the judgement scheme of a teen sitcom protagonist. _Regret is for later._ Now, he hummed, licking the notch between his thumb and forefinger, "You taste nice, Illumi." He grinned at the very-visible flush on Illumi’s neck and cheeks and wiped the rest of the cum with a handkerchief, half-expecting a police raid to emerge from nowhere. 

After a few deep breaths, Illumi sat up, and reached for Hisoka’s zipper. “No, no,” Hisoka tutted, pushing his hands away. Possibly one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. “Consider that my apology.” _Best to play it off._ He pressed on the gas and pulled back onto the road. They’d been parked behind Dyer hall, mostly obscured by a small thicket of evergreens. 

“Apology?” There was more fear in Illumi’s expression than Hisoka had been expecting. Now that he’d been staring at them for almost two days straight, Hisoka had come to realize that Illumi’s eyes were far more expressive than he’d first thought. 

“Yes,” Hisoka nodded. “For The Cemetery. I gave you a shot of pure everclear and rushed your finishing your Cobras. Entirely on purpose. I hoped you would get sloppy, spill your guts to me, and let me fuck you in the bathroom. But I now realize that I was--”

“Stop,” Illumi said. Hisoka nearly slammed the brakes when he saw that Illumi’s eyes were filling with tears. 

Hisoka’s mouth hung open. 

“Sorry,” Illumi whispered, pressing the base of his palms to his eyes. “I’m getting a little sick. I think I’m going--” he heaved once, clapping a hand over his mouth and swallowing hard. “Sorry again. This sometimes happens after-- I get really anxious. Sorry.” 

“I’m a monster.” Hisoka stared forward, brick academic buildings rushing by the corner of his vision.

“No, no,” Illumi coughed, swallowing again. “It’s fine. It’s normal. For me, at least. Everything. Except I wouldn’t have spilled my guts in the metaphorical sense, I hope you know. Not even everclear can loosen me up that much.” He coughed again and straightened up. “Okay, the coast is clear. I had some wine, and only an oyster before.” 

_ He’s chatty. _

“Sorry I’m being so chatty. It’s the hormones.” He made a circling gesture around his head. “They’re all fucked up in here. Ooh. Do you have any cigarettes?” 

“Glove box.” 

He popped it open and retrieved the green box of menthols Hisoka kept for dire circumstances. “Ah, thank you. Do you mind? It’ll shut me up.” 

Hisoka couldn’t help but laugh, and in spite of all his better judgement, he leaned over and pressed his lips to Ilumi’s, soft as a petal on water. Illumi kissed back, mouth coming open against Hisoka’s. “No,” Hisoka said, kissing again, gently sucking the corner of Illumi’s lip. “I like you like this.” The carton of cigarettes fell from Illumi’s hand onto his lap. This was moving much too quickly, but Hisoka couldn't muster up the energy to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Surely Illumi has a plan... right? His pituitary gland certainly does. As always, thanks for reading <3


	5. Babylonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s it,” Kikyo had said when he’d returned home with only a few drops of blood on his shorts. After that, he’d sweetly guided countless people to their deaths, passed his art down to Killua, and learned to hide his shame behind long hair.

At the last second, a waiter had noticed Illumi slipping through the door with the open wine bottle and rushed him, a shout erupting from his throat, but Illumi was too quick. He darted down the block and crouched in an alley behind an industrial trash can, head swirling with adrenaline and confusion.

 _First thing’s first._ He downed the bottle and stood up, swaying and exhaling. Anger shot up his spine. His Zoldyck pride was cropping up. 

_How dare Netero speak to me like that?_ He swung the bottle at the brick wall behind him, and shattered the thick, green-tinted glass in one hit.

_How dare the professor…_

Breathing heavily, Illumi crunched over the remnants of the bottle. As he rounded the corner at the end of the alley, he slid the hotel slip from his vinyl pocket. The highest point of Yorknew’s campus --the chapel steeple-- peaked over the low roofs of the upper west. The sun would set soon.

Illumi took one last look at the slip, blood stains and all, imagining a Zoldyck victim scribbling incoherent details as he died, imagining Professor Morow watching from-- where? A vent?

 _How would he have even gotten close enough without Zetsu?_ He took a deep breath, slid the slip from its plastic sleeve, and tore it to pieces in his fist.

Gliding down the street, roughly in the direction of campus, Illumi discarded the pieces as if they were candy wrappers. One hissed in a blue-flamed torch adorning the entrance of some steakhouse, a few more fluttered into various trash cans, one soaked in a fountain, and the last shred, bronze with dried blood, hard-swallowed, just for the drama. 

Rid of his burden, Illumi stood still, looking around at the blossoming evening. Eyes were on him, as usual.

 _I need a plan._ And then, with a rush of an emotion he could not name, _I need to see Professor Morow._

After speaking with Netero, the image he’d constructed of Professor Morow throughout the day-- absinthe-drinking, snake-smiling, trashy drapery-- was being replaced by that of a twisted, scheming ghoul. 

_If I see him… I’ll know who he is again. Of course I will. And…_

He tore off his gloves and found Dyer’s online schedule-- the professor’s last lecture had ended at four thirty. With any luck, he would still be there.

 _He has to be there._ If he ran, he could reach the doors in ten minutes. So, Illumi ran.

As he dashed down the street in his dress clothes, garnering more gasping onlookers than usual, Illumi’s hair bounced from its twist, falling haphazardly into his face, ends curling in the humid evening. One thing he knew for certain was that he wouldn’t be Netero’s spy. He would never again work for someone who thought of him only as a pawn. 

If the professor really was on the verge of discovering Nen, the only Zoldycks Illumi would protect were himself and Killua: the prodigal and the runaway heir.

His greatest fear was that Professor Morow was connected with the person Killua sensed last night, but he deemed it unlikely unless the professor was secretly a Nen user.

_But if that were the case then, why… why would he need to investigate anything?_

Netero’s story didn’t add up, but did that mean it was all a lie? Illumi chewed the inside of his lip as he waited for a traffic light.

“If he’s who we think he is...” Netero had said. At first, Illumi had thought it part of an elaborate put-down, but what if… _I sensed aura at The Cemetery, just before the professor arrived…_

_If he wants to harm Killua… what will I do, then?_

The concrete had turned to cobblestone, the buildings to trees. Illumi was on campus; the sky had gone orange with sunset. He felt like he was moving in slow-motion. _Calm down. You’re a Zoldyck. What will you do?_

Illumi thought back to what Kikyo had told him after his first high-profile mission, a near failure. The Padokean mob boss he’d been sent to kill had fought back viciously, and Illumi had been forced to kill him slowly, in pieces -- first an ear, then fingers, a needle to the eye. He’d returned to Kukuroo mountain hiccuping, splattered in blood, greeted by scowls and shaking heads.

“Next time, Illumi,” Kikyo announced, looking him up and down. “Remember that your body is your greatest weapon.”

At only seven years old, he hadn’t understood what she meant. But the next month, at Kikyo’s behest, he’d gone for the mobster’s rivals disguised as a hired child-- silk pajamas, stockings.

Still, he’d only been able to jam a needle into the boss’s brain at the last second, and had cried silently as the man’s lifeless hand slid off his thigh and onto the ground. 

“That’s it,” Kikyo had said when he’d returned home with only a few drops of blood on his shorts. After that, he’d sweetly guided countless people to their deaths, passed his art down to Killua, and learned to hide his shame behind long hair.

 _It won’t be like back then,_ he told himself, even as his heart threatened to burst from his chest.

When he found the professor, Illumi pushed down excitement, tried to lose himself in his old game.

He left himself unkempt and played up arousal, blushing and begging. He had not expected the professor to touch him so tenderly, to run the pads of his thumbs under his eyes, over his lips, to duck between his thighs before he even had a chance to-- _wait--_

The warmth had been disarming: Hisoka’s hands as they gripped Illumi’s waist, opened his pants. Hisoka’s mouth as it kissed Illumi’s belly, his tongue as it dragged down his cock, swirled around the tip; his throat, tight, humming, making Illumi squirm.

The professor had coaxed Illumi’s climax gently, pushes and pulls, the sighs of a lover, and Illumi had been unable to untangle his fingers from soft, red hair, take his eyes off sharp cheeks in the twilight glow.

He came sooner than he’d expected, silently, but with abandon, trembling into Hisoka’s palm, taken by bliss and the purr of Hisoka’s praise. Still riding the endorphin high, he’d wanted to, meant to, return the favor, blearily reaching for Hisoka’s zipper. _I want to taste it--_ But the professor had pushed his hands away, apologizing. 

Panic had closed around Illumi’s throat. He was out of practice, corrupted by alcohol and drug use. He wasn’t sure how he’d react to the Hisoka he’d been warned of. But it was only the professor: sincere, wide-eyed, a bit sheepish.

 _I wanted to fuck you in the bathroom,_ he’d said. Not, _I was hoping to get you to admit to being from a family of magic-using serial murderers._

Illumi’s relief and guilt, the force of his denial, was so intense that nausea had unfurled like a long-fingered hand in his abdomen. The cocktail of lingering tranquilizer, wine, anger, fear, and desire swirled, sickly sweet on Illumi’s tongue, in his head. 

He stopped himself from vomiting, and now he was sucking on a menthol as Professor Morow sped off campus toward the east side.

“I’m happy to cook dinner,” he’d said. “And make conversation with my new research assistant.”

The buildings outside were increasing in size, and Illumi dragged a thumb across his lower lip as he exhaled minty smoke, reached into his pocket for his phone. 

_Nothing new. I’ll call Killua later._

The humidity had caused the professor’s hair to curl at the temples, and the last arm of the setting sun made his irises bright as jewels. His lips curved as he drove; his eyes crinkled at the corners as if he was remembering something pleasant.

Suddenly, Illumi wanted to ask: how many research assistants had come undone in this very seat?

Instead, he turned toward the window, traced the outlines of passing skyscrapers, bodega awnings, gleaming storefronts. Night had fallen like a gauze blanket; the streetlights were beginning to flicker to life.

Illumi leaned his head on the glass, snaking his hand through the crack in the window and flicking the end of his cigarette.

 _I can handle this,_ he told himself, despite the fact that minutes ago, he’d been gagging into his palm. Illumi spent the rest of the car ride talking himself through non-reaction, curling into the black assassin pit at the back of his mind. Most of the time it was second nature, but he wasn’t often a deer eyeing the barrel of the gun.

And he wasn’t often so affected by a hunter. 

They reached Hisoka’s apartment just on the other side of dusty green Dayroad Park. Hisoka had pointed out his favorite reading spot, on a bench behind the chess tables.

“I can see it from my balcony. We can work there together,” he said. “Once we figure out what our project is going to be.”

In the doorway, he was slipping out of his shoes, wing-tip Oxfords, and Illumi noticed that his legs tensed muscular beneath his gray slacks. 

“Do you work out, Professor?” Illumi asked, without thinking about it. 

Hisoka straightened and grinned rakishly. “Admiring my body?” 

“Yes.” 

Hisoka snorted, twisting at the waist and motioning for Illumi to follow him into the living room. Illumi stepped out of his shoes and trotted after him as Hisoka detailed his strict exercise regimen, which included quite a lot of swimming.

“The pool is on the roof, and it’s heated in the colder months. And, what about you, Mister Zoldyck?” He enunciated, _Zol-dyck,_ popping the ‘k’ between smiling, closed teeth. A minute nibble on his lower lip. 

“I used to,” Illumi admitted. “Now the most exercise I get is on the club dancefloor, but I don’t remember most of it.”

“That’s a shame; I found your dancing to be quite alluring, as did everyone else in the club. I am glad I can remember it.” Hisoka settled into a dark red, tufted club chair reminiscent of the one Illumi remembered from his bedroom. He sat primly, crossing his exposed ankles.

“Thank you.” Illumi sat adjacent to him on the large Cabriole sofa, leaning over the arm to face Hisoka, and cupping his chin in his palm.

That morning, Illumi hadn’t taken much time to examine Hisoka’s apartment, but it was wide-windowed and open, with well-rugged concrete floors and eccentric decor.

The Professor sported an impressive collection of Mesoptamian-style figurines which he kept in a glass case under one of the windows; and in the corner of the living room stood a rather gaudy wooden idol of the Virgin Mary wearing a pink bra. Hisoka didn’t seem to have a television; instead, on the gray brick above the electric fireplace hung a pop-art rendition of a Caravaggio’s _The Incredulity of Saint Thomas_ in which Christ’s stigmata was painted to look like a vagina. 

_Bastard,_ Illumi thought, the corner of his mouth quirking. In the chaos of their coupling, he had forgotten to return his gloves, and he could see the professor eyeing his bandaged fingers.

“Now then,” Hisoka clapped his hands together, clearly opting not to ask after Illumi’s hands. “What did you think of the books? You finished your notes rather quickly and you haven’t forgotten them as cleanly as The Cemetery, I hope?”

The notes seemed so long ago, and truthfully, Illumi’s memories were largely occupied by “Modern Magicks,” the now-destroyed hotel slip. He fidgeted, forcing his heart rate down.

 _Is he going to ask about my family? About Nen?_ Lying or not, Netero’s face had looked so weathered and serious at Laveau.

“I…” He stared at the professor, tried to imagine how he might react to seeing the flayed bodies the Zoldycks left behind, the bare-bottomed, needle-stuck ones Illumi had specialized in. In return, Hisoka looked at Illumi with a crooning smile, fearlessly. 

“I am interested in modern applications of Babylonian cults, especially to Ishtar and Marduk.” The answer was such bullshit that it almost hurt Illumi to give, but, having written countless contrived papers on the subject, he could talk about it comfortably. 

If the professor noticed Illumi’s lie, he didn’t give it away, only narrowed his lids and said, “Ah, Ishtar. I thought you might say that. So different from your parents’ specialization, as the neo-Babylonians have almost no influence on society whatsoever. But you rebel against them in your way, I see. I’ve actually been reading up on the neo-Babylonians recently... ” 

On he went, gesticulating over sacred unions, fertility, the adorned altar. Illumi exhaled as Hisoka shot past the subject of the Zoldycks and focused on watching the professor’s lips move, nodding occasionally, adding where he could.

He had to admit, the professor made even the driest facets of the modern occult sound like a kaleidoscopic wonderland.

“Were you thinking of an ethnography-style project, or...?” Hisoka purred. “...perhaps re-enactment is more your style… an installation?”

 _Re-enactment? Is he--_ the professor was supposed to be grilling him about Nen, not making cheap passes. 

“I’m not sure yet,” Illumi replied. “What do you normally do?” 

“You mean you haven’t read my corpus?” The professor pouted, crossing his arms. “I’m quite well-known…” 

Illumi swallowed. “I…”

Hisoka chuckled, leaning back. “I do ethnography. Oral accounts, interviews. Stuff that gets the blood pumping.” 

Illumi bit his lip, breathed in through his nose. _What does he mean by that?_

He went on. “You know, an alarming amount of modern cultists use the religious practice as a front for all manner of debauchery, violence.” 

Illumi blinked. _Here it comes._ “Not… all of them.” 

“Well, of course. But when it comes to my interests, you may have guessed, the sicker the better.” He gleamed at that, fanged like a devil. “What do you think?” 

_What?_ “What do you mean, what do I think?”

Hisoka scooted to the very edge of his chair. “I want to know what you think.”

 _Is this some kind of trick?_ “I… I don’t like blood.” 

“Oh, really?” The professor hovered so close that for a moment, Illumi thought they might kiss, but Hisoka only stared, hushed his tone, softened his smile. “Alright, that’s enough for now. Think on what style of project you want to do. I’m… open-minded. Academia is about passion. I just want to find what makes you tick, if not blood.” 

“Nothing.” Illumi crossed his arms and sat back.

During the car ride, after the anxiety had rolled over him, he’d been confident that he knew where things stood, that he could talk his way out of danger even if the professor was onto his family-- but now? He picked at the bandages on his pinky, making the still-fresh wound sting. 

Another chuckle. “Do you like beets?” 

Illumi sighed.

Hisoka moved like a master in the kitchen, let Illumi sit on the counter and watch him as he whirled around with knives and tiny spoons, heavy-bottomed pans, and gleaming white dishes. True-to-form, the professor’s kitchen was all windows, pearl-marble countertops and chrome, but with odd touches: a neon martini decal, glass cabinets full of suspicious-looking preserves that reminded Illumi of a mad scientists’ lab. 

Dashing about from countertop, to oven, to stove, Hisoka stopped to feed Illumi little tastes as he cooked-- a medallion of pickled persimmon; a palm-sized crostini with jewels of black caviar; a warmed, marinated olive.

 _No alcohol, though._ Illumi seemed to recall Hisoka saying that he didn’t normally drink with students.

But even so, the tension from the living room was easing off Illumi’s shoulders. Perhaps this was, simply, about sex and research.

Perhaps he should forget about Netero, the Zoldycks, and just let things happen as they were meant to.

 _My parents’ flaw was always the illusion of control,_ he thought. _If all I can do is get Professor Morow on my side, then everything will be fine._

Hisoka sidled up to him, spatula in hand, a thin sheen of sweat shining on his forehead. His hair had slipped out of its usual elegant coiff, and hung down to his eyebrows. His chin sported the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, which Illumi hadn’t noticed until now. A white apron was snug over his maroon turtleneck and slacks; he was the picture of sophistication, talent, with a hint of mischief.

His voice, like butter, “What are you smiling about?” 

“I didn’t realize-- I like watching you cook,” Illumi replied, flustered. _I hadn’t realized I was smiling._

Hisoka nudged Illumi’s knees apart and stood between them. “I think you’ll find I have many tricks up my sleeve. I hope you like the food just as much.” 

This time, Illumi didn’t have to feign a blush. Heat climbed up to his cheeks, and he sat, heels touching the backs of Hisoka’s thighs. “What other tricks?” he asked, trying not to sound too awestruck.

Hisoka’s eyes flashed. “You’ll have to wait and find out.” He turned on his sock and sauntered back to the stove. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, at my most pretentious (so far). This chapter made me extremely nervous to write, and I hope the tension comes across to you as well. Sometimes narrating as anxious extraordinaire Illumi Zoldyck is a bit overwhelming. Next chapter will be 100% Hisoka if I can help it. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left feedback. Your comments legitimately make me cry tears of joy.


	6. Idols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I finally got you to admit it,” Illumi giggled, but it was mirthless, eerie, like a creak in an empty room.

_ He’s toying with me.  _ Hisoka thought.  _ He thinks I’m toying with him.  _

_ But aren’t I? _

He glanced over at Illumi, who was examining Hisoka’s cooking the way a seamstress might examine a spool of thread. Hisoka had truly outdone himself with two starters-- a chilled persimmon and redberry salad, and a summer borscht with a soft-boiled egg-- along with a main course of black cod with blackcurrant garnish. 

“I hope you’re as much of a snob as you look,” Hisoka had joked as he set it down. He’d elected to eat at the bar. The dining room felt too serious, and Illumi already seemed tense enough. There were moments when Hisoka thought he’d loosened him-- between his thighs in the car, between his knees in the kitchen, and though Illumi had left himself disheveled from their previous encounter, his shoulders had gone tight, his face still as marble. Hisoka almost felt compelled to tell Illumi that he was free to leave, and would have if it hadn’t been Illumi who had asked, practically begged, for him in the first place. In any case, Hisoka would not lay another finger on him until he was sure it would not feel like pressing into an open wound. 

But Hisoka could not stop himself from looking. He watched with bated breath as Illumi tried the food, brushing the tines of his fork to the gummy yolk of the egg, sliding them between his lips. He ate carefully, in small pieces -- a diced beet from the borscht, a single berry; when he mixed ingredients, they were carefully arranged on the fork. “Do you like it? You’re eating like you don’t like it.”

“If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t be eating at all.” 

Hisoka smirked, beginning to devour his food with much less care.  _ Everything I do, I do for you, Little Mouth.  _

Suddenly Illumi turned around toward the living room, and when he looked back, his pool eyes were ever-so-slightly narrowed. “Professor, how do you afford this apartment?” 

Hisoka nearly spit out his borscht. “No manners!” he laughed. “Isn’t your father the heir to some crazy fortune?”

“Well yes,” said Illumi, taking another tiny bite, chewing, and swallowing before he spoke. “And you’re an associate professor fresh out of grad school, but you live in an apartment that overlooks Dayroad Park.” 

_ Well, I wasn’t expecting this.  _ Hisoka stroked his chin, considering how he would answer. After all, there could be some benefit to giving Illumi even more incriminating information. Perhaps spilling his secrets would lead to Illumi revealing his intentions; perhaps he was rushing a bit too much. Either way, things could only get more interesting for Hisoka, and if that was the case, he would get what he wanted. 

But first, play. “Well then my little blue blood, how do you think I afford it?” 

Illumi didn’t bat an eye. “You’re on someone’s bankroll.” 

Hisoka raised his eyebrows. “You go for bankroll rather than heir?”

Illumi picked up his bowl and sipped the blood red broth. When he set it back down, his lips were stained red in the center and Hisoka wanted to reach and out and rub them. “If you were an heir, I would know.” 

“Oh, you would now?” 

“Yes.” There was no hint of irony to Illumi’s expression. 

_ No fun, Little Mouth.  _ “Ah, you got me, then.” Hisoka shrugged theatrically, scooting his stool close enough to Illumi to hear him swallow.  _ Ah. He’s nervous.  _ Part of Hisoka, the Hisoka who still held onto a shred of hope that Illumi was just a broken doll, wanted to make it worse.  _ Perhaps I should... _ he imagined himself snaking his fingers up Illumi’s thigh, but he restrained himself.  _ Why is he so nervous?  _

“Whose bankroll are you on?” This was the first time Hisoka heard Illumi’s voice waver. In anyone else, he could’ve written it off as a crack, a natural stutter. But Illumi, so tightly wound, would never give up his flat tone unless something cut it. 

_ And that something is me. Wonderful. But the question remains -- why?  _

_ I wonder how he’ll react when he finds out I’m the worst kind of social climber.  _ “I suppose you’re familiar with one Isaac Netero?” 

At that, Illumi began to pull at the bandages on his pinky. Cringing, Hisoka couldn’t resist grabbing at Illumi’s hand to stop the multination that was surely about to occur. As he reached, Illumi lashed out like a cornered cat, striking him away with the strength of a jilted lover. The sting travelled all the way up Hisoka’s shoulder as he stared, shocked. 

“So vicious!” Hisoka cried, sticking out his lip and rubbing the back of his hand, unready to concede to seriousness. Though, he couldn’t deny the twist in his gut, the pinprick of rejection. “I just didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” It was true.

When he looked up, the small, red-stained line of Illumi’s mouth trembled at the corners. His black eyes flickered. And Hisoka swore that, for a split second, the tips of Illumi’s hair were floating, as if swiped by static electricity. He looked rabid, ethereally angry; it was as if Hisoka had pulled back a gossamer layer to reveal a monster. Before, he had anticipated the moment Illumi cracked, but now he felt like his throat was filling with water. 

“You’re on Isaac Netero’s bankroll, and you’re worried about my fingers?” Illumi asked, barely clinging to his tone. 

“Well, yes,” Hisoka replied, feeling his eyes go wide. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. They itched to reach for Illumi, to run up his back, over his lips, so he shoved them in his apron pocket, stared down at himself for a distracted second.  _ I must look like a fool, done up like a chef, confessing my sins. _ He massaged his stomach through the fabric.

“I’m getting the feeling you’re not the biggest fan of Netero’s, and I can understand that, but, if you just let me explain…” he was rambling. He couldn’t stop. “I mean, I’m not claiming to be a good person here, like, I have my issues, I know, but I really wasn’t a part of the whole… business side of things. I was there to collect my check and, well, you know, get my dick wet, and, well, social-climb, fund my career…” his hands slid out of his pockets to gesticulate, like a sweaty teenage thespian’s.

Illumi’s anger was suddenly replaced by confusion, though only fractions of millimeters of his expression had changed. His left brow twitched. “Get your dick wet?” 

_ I’m going red. I knew it. Fuck.  _ “Well, yeah, I mean, I got in with the Zodiacs. I--” Hisoka gave a ragged sighed. He always knew he would tell Illumi about this, he just imagined that he’d be looking at soft bedroom eyes, emphasizing more savory aspects of his former work. He didn’t expect it to feel like coughing up a nest of hornets onto the lap of a schoolgirl. “I like fucking powerful men, okay? And sometimes women, though if I’m being honest--” 

He heard a strange sound, like a hiccup, but sweeter somehow. Illumi’s hand was over his mouth, his eyes were almost crinkling in the corners.  _ He’s laughing.  _ Sparklers were going off behind Hisoka’s eyes; he felt dizzy. He wanted to hug Illumi; he wanted to shake him. 

“I finally got you to admit it,” Illumi giggled, but it was mirthless, eerie, like a creak in an empty room.

“Well,” Hisoka stammered, “It’s not exactly a secret…” 

“Whatever,” said Illumi, his face falling back to its normal blankness. “You’re a fraud.” He spun around on his barstool and returned to pecking at his dinner, as if nothing had happened. 

Hisoka’s heart thumped in an empty, shocked chest.  _ A fraud?  _ He eyed his food and got up for a glass of water. 

_ Fuck, Hisoka,  _ he thought, trying to keep his face neutral.  _ You’ve lost the plot.  _ Hisoka had fucked within minutes, hated within seconds, but never once in his life had he been reduced to a stuttering, rambling mess mere hours after laying eyes on another person.  _ And a failing student, no less? Fuck!  _ He filled a tumbler from a pitcher in his fridge, and another for Illumi. Then, he stretched, and hung his apron on the hook just inside his pantry.  _ Get it together, Morow.  _

Hisoka decided to respond to Illumi’s minute outburst in the best way he could think of: his own sob story.  _ If we were lovers, that’s how I would convince him that he could trust me. _

He realized, with a squeeze in his heart, that he did want Illumi to trust him, wanted him to look up at him from under the duvet, asking him how to make meringue. 

“I’m not a fraud, actually,” he began, sliding the glass over to sit adjacent to Illumi’s now-empty plates. Doubtful eyes traveled languidly to meet his.  _ He’s still with me.  _ Hisoka’s heartbeat slowed to a jog.  _ I can still have him.  _ “I am a competent academic and an excellent fuck.” A twitch of a lip. “But, you see, my family wasn’t in the best position to support me in my youth, and I needed money. The Zodiacs offered that to me. Believe me, I tried other things first--”

All at once, the room exploded with a ringtone so loud that Hisoka dropped his glass hard upon the marble counter. Stricken, Illumi pawed at his pocket and wrenched a screaming iPhone to his ear at the same time as he got up and rushed to the entranceway. Hisoka heard a hushed  _ hello _ , and then Illumi was too far away, too quiet. Under ordinary circumstances, Hisoka would jump at the chance to eavesdrop on a panicked phone call, but he got the feeling that spying would not help him reach his goals in this circumstance. Besides that, his limbs suddenly felt leaden with embarrassment. He didn’t even want to look at the dinner he’d sweated over, thinking himself a performer, a seductress. 

With a heavy sigh, Hisoka trudged into the living room and stared into the glass cabinet of idols. He’d collected them over the years, mostly in the form of gifts from the Zodiacs. He loved their round faces, huge, blank eyes, their voluptuous bodies. But now, as they stared at him through the glass, all he could see was Illumi, red on his lips, red gathered at the corners of his stare. 

_ What did I even do wrong?  _ Hisoka wondered, running forlorn fingers through his hair, glaring at the idols.  _ Everything was going well until I mentioned Netero. They must have a history beyond Religious Studies.  _ He paced once around his couch.  _ Illumi does seem averse to his parents -- _ horrible people, he’d called them-- _ but since he’s going into their field I figured it was just some kind of petty rivalry… perhaps it’s more serious than that.  _ The thought of someone laying a cruel hand on Illumi gave Hisoka a curious twist of jealousy and dismay. 

“Professor,” Illumi’s voice sounded hoarse as he re-emerged from the entrance hall. 

Hisoka turned, too burdened by worry to smile. His lips only flickered. “Illumi.”

“I have to leave.” Illumi’s voice strained, his cheeks dusted pink. He looked like he had in the doorway at Dyer Hall: messy-haired, soft-eyed, desperate. 

Hisoka frowned as Illumi glided up to him, a put-upon want all over his face. 

_ Wait-- _

Illumi slipped his hands into Hisoka’s, the rough of the bandages crinkling on the professor’s palms. 

_ Wait, Illumi. No-- _

He pressed himself to Hisoka and leaned in, lips parted. “Wait, Illumi.” Hisoka gripped Illumi’s shoulders and pushed him back, scarcely believing his own actions. “You don’t have to do this.”  _ Maybe I am a fraud. _

Illumi swallowed, a thin line forming between his brows. He hovered inches from Hisoka, expression blurred like words beneath a magnifying glass, shoulders trembling faintly. “Okay. I have to leave,” he repeated finally, after a thick silence.

“That’s fine.” Hisoka’s words came out more tender than he’d heard them in years. “Come by on Monday to return the books?” 

A stiff nod.

“From now on, I’ll only do my job. Promise.”  _ There’s a first time for everything. _

Silence, and then, “Thank you for dinner. And…”

“Of course.”

Illumi left like a ghost, without even a squeak of his shoes or a click of the door. When he was gone, Hisoka sank into the corner of the couch Illumi had been sitting in, dropped his forehead to the arm Illumi had been leaning over. It smelled how Illumi had smelled yesterday morning, and that morning, and hours ago: petrichor and cigarettes.  _ I promised to do my job.  _

_ Melodrama is such a good hiding place. _

Hisoka’s lapse did not last long. With a laugh and a few claws through the hair, he rid himself of misery and trotted down the hall to retrieve his laptop, running back every interaction he’d had with Illumi thus far. _ It’s time for more research.  _ He had promised to do his job.  _ I’ve built a career out of reading between the lines.  _ Upon reaching his bedroom, he sighed and fell backward onto his bed, curling into Illumi’s lingering scent for a moment before opening his laptop on his stomach. He knew there was a missing piece somewhere-- perhaps the answers lay somewhere in the lended book collection that had started this mess, but until Monday he could only rely on the internet.  _ Clearly I’m missing something about my old friend Isaac Netero…  _

A simple internet search yielded the results Hisoka would have expected: links to Netero’s publications, reviews of “Modern Magicks,” celebratory interviews. There was a time last year when searching for Netero would have brought up photos attached to exposees-- “Famed Academic Isaac Netero States He was ‘Not Involved’ with Zodiac Exploits” --but Hisoka had practically watched Netero’s PR team bury anything incriminating, scrub all traces of his association with Zodiacs from the internet. And, for all its investment in dead languages and age-stained documents, academia had a short memory for scandal. Humming and tapping his lip with a long nail, Hisoka clicked on a photograph of Netero with Kikyo and Silva Zoldyck from a conference last year. “Netero named Keynote Speaker,” read the caption. “Pictured here with newcomers Kikyo and Silva Zoldyck.”  _ Hmm.  _

It had never occurred to Hisoka ‘till now that the Zoldycks had not been affiliated with any university; they seemed to have achieved notoriety strictly through association with Netero. Their online profiles stated that Silva had obtained his PhD from the Republic University of Pakodea, and that Kikyo had been educated in Azia, but when Hisoka dug further, he could find no records of their educations that weren’t published recently: no silly, decade-old, undergraduate theses, no award mentions, grant trips.  _ Interesting. Though, I’m not entirely sure what to make of this, other than that Netero’s influence is even more powerful than I thought.  _

_ Still,  _ Hisoka thought wearily.  _ I had to fight tooth and nail for him to even look at me. By the time he sponsored my PhD, I had fucked the entire upper class of Yorknew.  _

He still remembered the first time he met Netero, at an exclusive bar tucked behind the Sahertan Capitol. He’d been invited by Pariston Hill, vice chair of the Zodiacs, and a regular customer. “So exclusive,” Pariston had crooned from under him. “That the windows are actually two-way mirrors. We can’t have the riff-raff looking in. Except you of course, but you’re invited.” 

_ Oh shut up,  _ Hisoka remembered thinking, sitting down nonchalantly on Pariston’s dick and swiveling his hips. As far as he could tell then, Pariston and all of the other Zodiacs were empty-headed idiots, sensation-chasers, willing to throw money at any pretty thing. He'd been wrong, but it hadn't made any difference in how he was treated. “Is the Chairman going to want to fuck me?” Hisoka had asked, just before Pariston flipped him onto his back and shoved his tongue into his mouth.  _ No fucking flourish. No artistry.  _ Now he wondered how any of those brutes had managed to wreak the kind of havoc they had on the criminal underworld.

“No,” Pariston had groaned, thrusting savagely. “He just wants to look." A fistful of Hisoka's hair. "He’ll pay well, though. From what I’ve heard, he’s interested in you.” 

Pariston went on later, as they were dressing to go out: Netero had heard about Hisoka’s upbringing in the slums around Yorknew, marvelled at his cunning betrayal of the Phantom Troupe Gang, saluted his success in school, and, of course, yearned to witness his unmatched skill in the bedroom. He’d even read Hisoka’s work, had been startled by its luridness. At that, Pariston had hunched his shoulders, feigned a scratchy voice. ‘Mr. Morow really cuts to the blood of things, doesn’t he? Brains to die for, and looks to kill for, ha-ha.’ He had exploded with laughter, but there had been a cruel undertone to his words. Though Hisoka had been clothed, white silk from head-to-toe, he had felt stripped. He hadn’t told any of the Zodiacs about his past before college, and yet, they knew. And they talked.

At the bar, Netero’s presence had been unmistakable; silencing and powerful. Despite the fact that he was a slow-moving old man, all eyes had been on him the instant he’d arrived, and all rolled as he made a beeline for Hisoka. 

“See?” Pariston had breathed in Hisoka’s ear. He’d been nervous as Pariston introduced him, unsure of what to expect. Netero was the first person Hisoka had been entirely unable to read. At the time, he’d been thinking the same thing he was thinking now:  _ Why Religious Studies? _ It had seemed so painfully random that a man with Netero’s influence would want to prop up the career of an aspiring academic. Then, he’d written it off as some kind of sex thing, a desire to control the young and promising. But throwing the Zoldycks into the mix complicated that theory. 

Hisoka closed his laptop and put his fingers to his temples.  _ Think, Hisoka.  _

_ What was it my mother always used to say to my father when he gambled away our savings?  _

“If it seems too good to be true...” Hisoka whispered. “It is.” He bounced from bed and went to his window, peered out at the nighttime shadows of Dayroad Park. There was someone sitting on his favorite bench. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! Thank you so much for reading & sticking with my story!! Sorry there was no smut this chapter... the boys are difficult. But I hope you enjoyed it anyway. When they finally consummate their relationship, I think it will be worth it!
> 
> Hisoka's menu was inspired by Vladimir Mukhin's at "White Rabbit." :)


	7. Glamour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just like the good old days, Illumi thought, smiling bitterly.

Illumi had sworn that the call had been from Killua, but when he picked up, Milluki’s pinched voice was on the other line. His heart sank like a stone. Hisoka’s coats hung in a nook next to the door: brown, black, houndstooth, checkered-- 

“Lu.” Milluki again. “Are you there?”

“I thought you were Killua.”

“It’s Milluki.”

“I know. I thought the contact said Killua.” He pulled his phone from his ear to look, and sure enough, it was Milluki.  _ Might’ve been one of his tricks.  _

“Lu, please. I’ve just spoken to Netero. He said you threw a fit at a restaurant and went home, which doesn’t surprise me at all... meanwhile he’s out running around the city, trying to find Killua, who won’t answer anyone’s calls.” 

“Why is he trying to find Killua?” Illumi’s heart was gasping. Though, so far, nothing had turned out as badly as he had thought.

“He thinks that, given the  _ situation, _ Killua will be safest in his care.”

_ Well, what exactly is the situation?  _ Illumi thought. Hisoka seemed positively oblivious when it came to Nen, the Zoldycks’ true identities. When Illumi insisted as much, Milluki made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a snort. Illumi could imagine him swiveling in his chair, slapping the desk with his large, meaty hands.

“Don’t be so naive. Netero’s known this guy for years. Said he’s a seasoned liar -- had all of his people wrapped around his finger. Some of the most powerful Nen users outside of the Zoldyck family; and the ones without Nen were government agents, high-ranking military officers. We don’t know what Morow is planning--”

“Netero is  _ bankrolling  _ him,” Illumi hissed. “You’re all fucking liars.” 

Milluki hummed. Illumi could hear the loud clack of his mechanical keyboard, the puff of his breath in his headset mic. “We know he’s gathering evidence about Nen. Kalluto has seen him before; so has Zeno. He’s old friends with some of our past clients, and some of our past targets. He’s bad news.”

Only sheer curiosity and rage were keeping Illumi on the line. “Please,” he huffed. “You, and mom, and dad, and  _ everyone else  _ have been fucking with me for way too long for me to believe you now.” 

“You don’t have to believe me. Why don’t you just go and help Netero find Killua? You’ll see for yourself eventually.”

“Why doesn’t Dad just come and get him?”

“Dad’s pissed at Netero. And besides, he’s out on a big job. We won’t hear from him for a while.”

_ Milluki is corroborating Netero’s story, but I doubt that means anything.  _ Illumi chewed on the frayed edge of a bandage, forcing nonchalance, though the thought of his father prioritizing work over the well-being of his heir was enough to set off his bloodlust. “If I find him first, I’m not handing him over.” 

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re actually older than me, Lu.” Illumi could practically see Milluki’s eyes rolling as he typed away. 

“Whatever. Anything else?”

“Keep an eye on that professor. Even if you’re not going to cooperate with the adults. It’ll be so satisfying when I get to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Milluki.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me if Netero finds Killua.”

Milluki sighed. “You haven’t changed.”

Illumi hung up without saying goodbye and remained still for a moment, taking deep breaths to slow his heart, to smooth the creases of emotion in his face.  _ You’ve been trained for this. You will find Killua, you will crack Professor Morow, and you will uncover whatever deranged secret your family is hiding.  _ He could almost see himself reverting back to his former self, crawling back into the assassin brain.  _ Strategize. Predict.  _ He’d played Hisoka so well during dinner that it had given him a new surge of confidence. Though he hadn’t had a chance to show off his skill set yet, soon he’d have the professor handing over his account passwords and bank routing number with a flick of the tongue.  _ Just like the good old days, _ Illumi thought, smiling bitterly. He turned on his heel to face the mirror on the other side of the door. 

Peering at himself through shadowed-eyes, at his shirt, untucked and wrinkled, at his hair, wavy over his shoulders, Illumi deflated. “Okay, maybe you’re a bit overconfident,” he murmured to himself, giving his bicep a squeeze. The muscle, once sturdy as white hickory, gave under his fingers. He pulled up his shirt to reveal a smooth, flat belly, the ridge of ribs unlined by muscle. Still, the thought of returning to Professor Morow the way he had earlier, nudging secrets from his lips, a moan caught in his throat, was enough to push him past any lapse in confidence. 

_ I don’t really have time for that now, though. I need to get to Killua before Netero does. _

__

Perhaps Illumi’s time constraints had caused him to play the desperate lover a bit too well, because Hisoka’s face had twisted, stained like a drop of blood in a pool. “No,” he’d said, in velvet. “You don’t have to.” 

Though it had seemed all theater, the words melted Illumi’s resolve. If the professor had told him to press a lit match to his eye in that moment, Illumi would’ve done it. He felt himself tremble before he answered, only able to repeat himself and nod. Even if it was all a lie, Illumi would let himself enjoy a moment of softness, Hisoka’s empty promises like a blanket over his eyes.

Illumi left silently, left the professor frozen in his living room. His nerves returned the moment he stepped into the balmy evening.  _ Find Killua.  _

That morning Killua had said he was on the West Side, at a hotel. When Killua was little, Illumi frequently took him to Yorknew on jobs; then, he’d been obsessed with darting around Dayroad Park on his little legs, walking up to every vendor and asking if they sold candy. Once, Illumi nearly went hysterical trying to find Killua among the trees, sensing his presence, but unable to see him, only for Killua to emerge minutes later, grinning face smeared with chocolate. Feather-headed Killua, softer than the other Zoldycks, an easy laugh, an easy cry. When he worked, he always looked away at the final moments--

_ Don’t think about that now. Focus on finding him.  _

Illumi silenced his footsteps on the gravel path as he passed under Dayroad’s arched entrance way. In the lamp-lit night, benches sat empty, the trees curved over him like a shadowy ribcage. He breathed deeply as he walked, fluttered his eyes closed, trying to sense Killua’s essence, the faint clip of his footsteps. 

A voice emerged, like a snake from grass. “Well aren’t you glamorous.”

Illumi paused, cracking an eye open. He was too immersed in the search to allow a stranger to ruffle him, but the man had risen from where he’d sat to stand in Illumi’s path.  _ I was so focused on Killua that I didn’t sense him at all…  _ Illumi’s thoughts were faint beneath the void of his assassin’s mind. 

“Excuse me,” Illumi murmured, sidestepping. The man was dark-headed and heavy-lidded, with a St. Peter’s cross tattooed between his eyebrows, and large, turquoise earrings hanging heavy from his lobes.  _ A gang member?  _ Illumi couldn’t see a weapon, but even in the dim light, the man’s eyes shone with malice. Something about him made Illumi uneasy. He thought of reaching for one of his bobby pins, now sitting uselessly at the back of his head, sending a thin trickle of aura into them. But he kept calm, kept walking. The man followed like a shadow, large black boots stepping lightly on the gravel.

“Where did you come from?” He spoke languidly, the way the one blew cigarette smoke. Illumi’s pulse jumped to his throat.  _ Who is this person?  _

“Are you the new toy?” The man raised his voice. 

Illumi stopped, twisting to face him, jaw clenched. “What?”

“You just came from Hisoka’s, did you not? Ah, sorry, Professor Morow’s?” The man’s lips curled into a faint smile. Illumi realized with a jolt that he’d been sitting on the bench in front of the chess tables; the one that Professor Morow had pointed out as they drove.  _ He was waiting for me.  _

“Who are you?” 

The man shrugged. “Just an old friend of the good professor’s. I came to pay him a visit, but I wanted to wait ‘till sensibly late, as he likes.” He paused to push a lock of shaggy dark hair back from his forehead. “I take it you haven’t heard of me then.” 

“No,” Illumi said, beginning to walk again. The man gave a soft laugh.  _ I don’t care. Find Killua.  _

Illumi exhaled silently when he heard the man sit back down. But just as he was about to shut his eyes again, he felt a strange aura, at once menacing and candy-sweet, like the one from The Cemetery.  _ He had all of Netero’s people wrapped around his finger…  _ Illumi wheeled around, but the man was gone. He squinted up, trying to find the professor’s balcony, but all the lights in his building were dim; curtains drawn. The aura dissipated. Illumi’s heart was pounding, but he couldn’t sense anyone or anything. He turned back on his heel and started running.  _ I have to find Killua.  _

And,  _ what if that was the person Killua sensed last night?  _

He pulled a few bobby pins from his hair and gripped them in his fists.  _ I know I can find him.  _

During his third year at Yorknew, Illumi had taken a leave of absence after the family had informed him that Killua had gone missing. They’d sent him on a wild goose chase across several countries, slinging false praise-- ‘no one is as good at sensing Killua as you, Illu!’-- only for Illumi to show up, heartbroken and exhausted, at the foot of Kukuroo Mountain, the only place he could sense even an echo of Killua’s presence.  _ Just his lingering essence,  _ Illumi had thought. As it had turned out, however, Kikyo and Silva had locked Killua in one of the dungeons, forcing him to keep up his newly-learned Zetsu. The prank had taken months of Illumi’s life, eaten away even more at his confidence than his first leave, but it had left him with one important lesson: he could sense Killua, Zetsu or not. 

Illumi searched Yorknew’s west side for hours, running on the fumes of his determination and the thought that if he was Silva or Kalluto, he wouldn’t let anything get in the way of his goal. He circled every hotel, returned to every spot he’d taken Killua in the old days: the twenty-four-hour candy shops Killua loved, where they sold three-foot-long chocolate wafers; the delis where Killua would order sandwiches much too large for his mouth; and the warehouses, auditoriums, alleyways steeped in ichor and death, Illumi’s worst memories staring at him with emptied eyes. He kept waiting for Killua to emerge around a corner, smiling, swinging his yo-yo, needling Kurapika, or carrying Gon on his back. Maybe he would run from Illumi, as he had during training, or maybe he’d be so scared that he’d run to Illumi’s arms. Either would have been enough to make Illumi sigh with relief. 

As the night wore on, and Illumi squished through miles of abandoned, water damaged concrete buildings, poked around crumbling brick facades straining for the birdsong of Killua’s presence, he began to relive the worst memories of his time as an assassin. He called Milluki to silence them, to no answer. In his mind, he saw Killua emerging from a hotel bathroom tear streaked, dragging a writhing, pleading body he couldn’t manage to kill: a witness, collateral damage, babbling about his family.  _ Illumi, help me, I can’t… _ Illumi shuddered and called Milluki again.  _ Please pick up. _ He was running now, retracing his steps-- back through the bakeries, back through the sandwich shops, the hotels, the alleys.  _ Where is he?  _ He saw the light leave Killua’s eyes as he drove a needle into the spare man’s throat, cold as a doctor performing surgery. He pressed his palms to his temples, called Milluki again. Left a crackled voicemail, “Milluki, please help me.”  _ Illumi, don’t make me do it.  _ “I won’t, Killua, just please let me find you.” He called Netero next, “I can’t find him, please help me. I can’t feel his aura anywhere.” And still, there was no answer, and no Killua, just the pale blue of regret. And the silent night went on, and rain began to leak from thin summer clouds, and Illumi was exhausted, delirious, out of practice. 

He reached his limit as the first rain-soaked arm of sunrise reached over the skyline, doubled over in some empty alley on the lower west. His muscles screamed; his prior confidence lay shattered, piercing his stomach like bullets. He hung onto his bloodlust by a thread; couldn’t stop imagining Killua’s body, gray and mangled like the Zoldyck victims. _ This is your fault,  _ he thought.  _ Your training traumatized Killua, made him run away…. _ He groaned, felt hot tears spring to his eyes.  _ You didn’t keep up with your strength. If you would’ve only... _ Ah…  _ I can’t hold it in.  _

Illumi fell hard onto his knees and aura exploded around him, crackling like black flames over his arms, through his hair, filling his mouth with lead. He shouted silently into his palms; tears gathered in the creases of his fingers and slipped through. He tore at his nails, the pliant skin of his face, and cried for Killua until he could feel blood vessels popping. When all his tears were spent or stuck to the corners of his vision, and his aura trickled to a corrosive nothing, Illumi crumpled, exhaustion hitting him all at once. “Fuck…” he whispered, as his cheek squished against the wet pavement. “I can’t…” his vision was doubling, dotting, graying out.

“Illu?” 

Illumi blinked, a shock running through him. For a moment, he thought that he was dreaming, that he was back at Kukuroo Mountain.

“Illumi.”

He didn’t sense a thing but it was-- he scrambled to seat. Killua was standing at the end of the alley, alone. Blood was smeared on his legs; he was covered in dirt; the white feathers of his hair were matted. 

“Killua…” Illumi crawled forward, forcing himself to his knees, then a shaky stand. “Killua, thank God.” He reached for his brother, who stood still as Illumi wrapped his arms around him.

“I could’ve died,” said Killua blankly, into Illumi’s chest. All traces of boyish sweetness had left his tone. He sounded empty, like Kalluto. Like Illumi, and all the other Zoldycks. The sound made Illumi want to weep anew.  _ You did this. _

“I know,” Illumi said. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t sense your aura… I searched for hours… I don’t know what happened… I found you last time… I…” 

To Illumi’s horror, Netero appeared at the end of the alley, looking stern and dark. 

“You didn’t find me this time, Illu,” Killua mumbled. 

“I--I know…” Illumi murmured, hugging Killua tighter. He couldn’t even conjure anger for Netero. “But I’m so glad you’re okay.” 

“He almost wasn’t,” Netero announced, gravely. “The pursuers almost got to him.” 

Illumi looked around, bleary. The day seemed abnormally bright; he had to squint against it. “Where….where’s Gon? Kurapika?” 

“We don’t know,” said Netero. 

“They weren’t as fast as I was,” Killua added, pushing himself out of Illumi’s grasp and trudging to stand next to Netero. “They’re probably dead.” 

Illumi’s breath stuttered. He couldn’t say anything.  _ Dead? _ He remembered how elated Killua had been to meet Gon, to befriend him, and how enraged Kikyo and Silva had been in return.  _ And Netero didn’t help them?  _ Illumi’s head was spinning. He didn’t know how much longer he could stay upright.

“Your abilities have declined significantly, Illumi,” Netero said, crossing his arms. “It’d be best if you came with us, or returned to Kukuroo. In this state, I don’t know how safe you are as a Zoldyck in this city. People are onto us. Hisoka Morow is much more connected than we once thought. He definitely sent people after Killua, probably thinks he’s the weakest link in the family… besides you, of course.” 

“No…” Illumi was barely listening to him. _Hisoka isn’t the problem..._ _There’s something strange about Killua. His eyes are too dark… his posture is... his voice..._ More than anything, Killua would never speak of his friends with such nonchalance. 

“Illumi,” Netero boomed, tapping his foot. “I’m losing my patience with you.” 

“Hold on,” Illumi put up a weak hand.  _ They’re… underestimating me...  _ His thoughts moved sluggishly; it took him a while to find the right words, and when they came, they were scarcely above a whisper. “Killua. What was the name of the dessert shop on Eleventh that we would go to after jobs?” Netero sputtered in protest, but a last gasp of aura burst from Illumi’s shoulders, sharp and malicious enough to shut the old man up for a second. 

“Houdini Bakery,” Killua said, almost proudly.

_ Wrong,  _ Illumi thought.  _ It’s... _ Just as he opened his mouth to respond, but there was a white blur and he was hitting the ground for a second time, a searing suction expanding around his neck and chest.  _ Netero…  _

_ \--- _

After cleaning his kitchen, Hisoka returned to his balcony with a glass of red wine. Venus would be visible tonight, and he wanted to gaze up at her before the rain started and the humidity became intolerable. When he looked back out over Dayroad Park, he saw that the figure who’d been perched on his bench had gone.  _ Strange,  _ Hisoka thought, sipping his wine and turning his eyes to the heavens.  _ I could’ve sworn that looked like…  _

_ The Morningstar.  _ He found Venus, a distant yellow smudge, and thought of how Illumi had slept with his knees tucked to his chest, even while blackout drunk.  _ I wonder what Illumi is doing right now.  _ He smiled, sipped. With any luck, Illumi had solved whatever issue he’d faced in the phone call, and was finally getting to sleep after a tumultuous day. Somehow, however, Hisoka knew that was impossible. 

But it was that chaos, the near-assurance of failure, that had turned Hisoka’s heart so dramatically in Illumi’s direction. Others could be solved like equations, neatly, even if it took years. Illumi could not breathe without mess.  _ I don’t like blood,  _ he’d said.  _ But you’re steeped in it, aren’t you?  _ Venus seemed to glow brighter, over the hazy city glow, and Hisoka’s heart fluttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M REALLY SORRY FOR MY GIMMICKY CHAPTER SUMMARIES BUT I CAN'T RESIST!
> 
> Alternate summary: "Illumi's mind goes to shit while Hisoka happily sips wine on his balcony." 
> 
> Whew, this chapter. We are entering the thick of the Plot. Will our lovers be reunited?? Will Hisoka do his job as promised?? 
> 
> Had to put the Hisoka POV at the end there just to show how the other half lives, y'know? Thanks for reading; I love you all. I can't believe the story has almost 800 hits! <3 <3 <3 I'm having a blast writing it, and terrorizing my friends and family with it.


	8. Opposite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The corner of Hisoka’s mouth quirked, and a pool of excitement opened in his stomach. 'This is what I have been missing since becoming a respectable member of society.'

Illumi appeared in Hisoka’s office on Monday at nine in the morning. He looked wan and tired, chapsticked, haphazardly ponytailed, and swallowed by a dark-green corduroy button-down. A pack of cigarettes peeked conspicuously from his breast pocket. Hisoka raised his eyebrows and tapped his shoe as Illumi stepped gingerly into the room, heels clicking on the floor. He was not the polished avian creature from last Thursday, yet he was somehow more desirable. “I brought your books,” Illumi said, brandishing a nylon bag. 

“Have a seat,” Hisoka said, gesturing obliquely to the cracked leather armchair stuffed in the corner of his tiny associates’ office between the wall and the desk. The office, decorated only with Hisoka’s diplomas, and posters advertising his presentations, was much less ornate than the Chair’s, which he’d borrowed for their inaugural meeting half-hoping he’d get lucky over the cherrywood. _So much has changed since then._ Seeing Illumi now almost felt like seeing an ex, years after a messy-but-passionate divorce. Though it had only been two days they’d been apart. Hisoka wondered if Illumi would find it odd that he had no photographs of loved ones, as other students had. _Do you have a wife, Professor Morow? Do you still keep in touch with your cohort?_

Hisoka clicked his tongue as Illumi placed the bag on his desk and sat, pressing his knees together. He was wearing a pair of scalloped biking shorts under the corduroy, which gripped the soft of his thighs just enough to leave faint, pink marks in their wake. Hisoka’s gaze lingered a bit too long on the gap between: warm, sensitive, wide enough to fit a teasing hand. He chewed the inside of his cheek when Illumi shifted, placing laced fingers between his knees. _And after I promised to only do my job, too._

“How was the rest of your weekend?” Hisoka forced out, paring down the husk of arousal around his words. 

“Enlightening,” Illumi said, looking at Hisoka from under half-mast lids. His tone was the same as ever, but his voice was scratchy, as if he’d been screaming. Or crying. “I redid my notes. The others were… lazy.” 

“Oh?” _Yes, good boy. Talk about research._

“Yes,” Illumi reached for the bag and Hisoka noticed that bandages now covered his fingers from base-to-end. _Illumi…_ He wanted to ask after them. _God, Hisoka. It’s been two days._ You _rejected_ him _, remember?_ With a soft tap, Illumi set down a stack of papers covered in delicate cursive, hole-punched, and held together with a treasury tag. 

“Is this nineteen-seventy, Illumi?” 

“I don’t get what you mean.”

With a self-satisfied smile, Hisoka took the papers, which crinkled as he carded through them. _This rich brat. Did he take calligraphy classes or something?_ Each letter looked like it had taken ten minutes to write, and the words bore no resemblance to the conversation they’d had on Friday. Unfamiliar terms were jumping out at him. _Nen. Zetsu. Hatsu. What is this?_

“While you read, I’m going for a smoke,” Illumi announced, pressing his palms to the arms of the chair. 

_No, stay,_ Hisoka wanted to say, but he only nodded, eyes tracing the scallops on the edges of Illumi’s shorts as he stood, and then the loops of fine lettering when he left. 

_I’ve decided to focus these notes on the relatively recent discovery of a cult known as Nen Believers,_ Illumi wrote _. Though not directly mentioned in works other than Netero’s “Modern Magicks,” I believe that several other references to occult happenings in various states throughout the last twenty years indicate…_ Illumi went on, in elegant prose, to describe references to ‘aura’ in government media appearances, several series of Yorknew murders which seemed to have a ritual component to them, and descriptions of practices similar to his parents’ and Netero’s descriptions of ‘Nen Believers’ in “Modern Magicks.” The notes read like an exposée-- shocking, risky, convincing. With painstaking detail, which indicated that Illumi’d picked through each of Hisoka’s sources with a fine-toothed comb, he took his parents’ thesis a step further, suggesting that genuine Nen Believers held influential positions not only in the criminal underworld, but also in the governments of all V6 countries. _Nen cannot be described as a cult, as the Zoldycks claim, but as a secret network of beliefs comprising a New Religious Movement. Its tenets do not come with a binding dogma, but belief in Nen results in a sophisticated hierarchy of control which, as I seek to prove in assisting Professor Hisoka Morow, has had devastating effects on safety and quality of life across the V6._

“Interesting…” Hisoka said to himself, flipping back to the first page and reading it again. “I wonder what he’s planning.” At that, Illumi blew back into the room followed by a strong whiff of smoke. The carton in his pocket was gone; his once-messy hair was smoothed in its black hair-tye; and he had a sticky note pinched between two fingers, which he set gingerly atop the stack of papers.

Looking down at it, Hisoka held back a laugh. Scribbled on the small yellow square was a poorly-drawn face-- large eyes which resembled balls of yarn; scribbly, middle-parted black hair; and the unmistakable St. Peter’s Cross in the center of the forehead. _Chrollo, you’ve never looked better,_ Hisoka smirked. 

“Professor, do you know this person?” 

At that, Hisoka did laugh, pinching the sticky note in front of his eyes and pretending to examine it closely. Illumi’s childlike scribbles somehow resembled the once-legendary drug lord in a way that words simply could not capture. “Is this a shakedown?” he joked. 

“Yes,” said Illumi, a minuscule twinkle in the black of his eyes. “So?” 

“Did you _have_ to draw him?” 

“So you do know him?” 

“Illumi.”

“I’m not good at describing how people look.” 

“Yeah, I know him,” Hisoka relented, his snake’s smile returning for the first time in days. “An ex-lover, of course. And, like all of my ex-lovers, he harbors quite the luxurious hatred for me.” _The most delicious to betray._ The professor leaned forward, curling long fingers around the opposite end of the desk. “Why do you ask?”

Illumi sniffed and looked down at his fingers for a moment, scratching the bandages on his thumb and forefinger together. Hisoka held his breath, realizing what it meant that Illumi had drawn Chrollo. _What does he know?_ When Illumi looked up, his eyes burned like matches in a dark room, and he held his mouth open for a few seconds, as if the words were trapped behind his teeth. Then, he blinked, and the fire was gone. “Professor, what did you think of my notes?”

 _That wasn’t an angry look…_ Hisoka plucked the cute little Chrollo off the stack, admiring the incongruity between the drawing and the delicate lettering. “I… yes, they were quite interesting indeed. Why the change? Decided you don’t hate mommy and daddy after all?” He really couldn’t resist prodding. 

“No, the opposite. But if you agree to the subject, there are four conditions I’d like to set.” 

_Damn. Unruffled as usual._ “And what are those?”

Illumi gave him a searching look, free of his normal tension. “First, you must present the findings at the upcoming conference in Glam Gas, which is in six months.” Hisoka nodded. _A quick turnaround, but doable._ “Second, you must submit a falsified abstract, because no one can know the real subject of your presentation.” _Okay…_ Illumi took a breath, and a shadow crossed his features. “Third, presenting on Nen may be dangerous, so you must agree to a potential threat to your life.”

Hisoka’s heart jumped. _Say less. I’ll have you over this desk right now._

“And, finally, the result of the presentation will likely--”

 _Wait._ “Illumi.” Hisoka stared down at the writing, carefully wrought from thin, bandaged fingers. He imagined Illumi pouring over it, surrounded by stacks of books. Had he sat on the ground, bent so low that his hair brushed the floor? Or perhaps he had holed up in the library, in a space hidden behind columns, knees-to-chin on a huge, wooden chair. The result of Illumi's labor, which had lit up his sullen face, if only for a moment, deserved a proper presentation. “If you’re going to reveal a secret to me… we should wait until we can go somewhere no one can hear us.” 

Illumi blinked, lips around a small, “Oh.” And then, after another long look at his fingers. “Where?”

“I can’t tell you,” Hisoka winked, pressing a finger to his lips. “Come back this evening, at sunset.” 

“Alright,” said Illumi, standing up once more and sliding his nylon bag out from under a perfectly-preserved stack of books. As he leaned forward, Hisoka noticed an archipelago of raised bruises extending across Illumi’s chest like bulbous, rotting storm clouds. Stifling a gasp, he looked away, catching Chrollo’s yarn eye in the corner of his gaze. Illumi twitched, pressing a palm to his shirt, but both of them knew without saying what Hisoka had seen. 

“Jesus, Illumi,” Hisoka breathed, eyes still fixed on the sticky note. 

“No,” Illumi replied solemnly. “The opposite.” 

The corner of Hisoka’s mouth quirked, and a pool of excitement opened in his stomach. _This is what I have been missing since becoming a respectable member of society._

\---

_The result of the presentation will likely be the immediate arrest of my entire family along with myself. And at that point, I will be unable to protect you._

When Illumi left Hisoka’s office, he made a beeline for a common area, stepping carefully down the tiered leveling and folding into a charcoal divan in the bottom corner. He breathed into the cushion, arms and legs leaden at his sides, breath toxic and smoky. A few students, tucked into tables littered with books, looked over their shoulders at him, the collapsed willow, but they all snapped back to their pages when he righted himself, smoothing his ponytail over his shoulder and sliding his phone from the waistband of his shorts. His chest ached with every breath where Netero had pummeled him.

 _But the game has begun,_ he thought, with a private smile. Though his stomach turned at the thought of being stuffed into a padded box in a Sahertan prison, having his aura forced through his pores with the nightmarish poisons his parents always warned him about, anything was better than swatting impotently at the Zoldycks when they flew down from Kukuroo, teeth bared. There were a few missing pieces, like Hisoka’s ‘ex-lover’ and the destroyed hotel slip, but the former he’d mostly used as a final test of Hisoka’s honesty, and the latter likely found its origins with Netero, who, Illumi guessed could have gifted Hisoka the volume during their joint studies. 

_They underestimated me,_ Illumi thought, deleting the missed call notifications one-by-one. _Milluki… Netero…_ even Silva and Kikyo called him a few times. “So I guess you don’t care that Killua is safe,” Milluki had texted at around eight thirty Sunday morning. Illumi tasted blood when he thought about the auraless, puppet Killua that Netero had ‘found;’ how he’d woken up scrambling like a drowning cat, stuffed in a body bag on his doorstep, a crumpled note in his fist. 

“Killua thought you’d be happier if we left you here.” 

_They underestimated the hours I spent with Killua, teaching him to tiptoe through glass, slide his fingers between grown mens’ ribs, soften his eyes and wait for the moment to strike. I would know his voice, his mannerisms, his fears and joys, among thousands of fake Killuas. And the only reason I didn’t know instantly was because I was half-dead. Netero knew…_

In the bare face of the Zoldycks’ scheme, Illumi’s instinct had been to wail, to tumble from the window, to press a fork into his temples-- the same reaction that had landed him chained to a hospital bed two years ago. And then he’d chastised himself; forced himself into a stinging bath; examined the collar of bruises over his chest, the sockets where his nails had been; _even if you did those things, you’d survive, and you’d wake up having failed once more._

He understood, as he went through the motions of licking his wounds --bandages, ointments, salt soaks, ice-- that Friday evening had been no more than a condensed rehash of his second leave of absence, a convoluted prank of sorts. Though, while the other one had seemed at least a performance of drawing him back to hearth and home, this one seemed aimed solely at torturing and isolating him. He had to tell himself that Killua had not known, that he’d successfully hidden himself in a place not even Zeno’s Nen Beast could slither. _I won’t look for him again,_ Illumi told himself as he gathered up the heaps of clothing on the floor and shoved them into the washer. _If I find him, it will be because he has come to me willingly._ And, as he scrubbed mold from the dishes piled in his sink, hissing when the soap irritated his fingers, sunlight reached in through the windows, and Illumi realized that he’d been betting on the wrong odds.

He thought of Hisoka, smiling into sunset, tongue at the curve of his thumb. _Why would I believe people who have been lying to me for the better part of twenty years over someone who admitted to a wrongdoing I could not remember? Even if that person is a cheat, a liar, and a fraud…_

Sunday morning, Illumi was in the library, hunched over a stack of papers, books, and his tiny phone screen, for the first time wishing he owned a computer. It had been slower going than usual, because every thirty minutes, he had to stop and stretch, but by nightfall he had read every piece Hisoka had published in the past five years, combed through each borrowed volume, scoured news reports and squinted through conspiracy forums searching for mentions of anything resembling Nen in the modern occult scene. As it turned out, several now-defunct forums had been dedicated to the so-called “Needle Murders,” on which conspiracy lovers generally blamed prostitutes, due to the fact that the bodies were mostly found naked. 

“The government is covering this up,” said one commenter. “Because they’re being controlled by the mafia.”

 _Oh, you don’t know the half of it,_ Illumi thought, wondering how the commenters would feel knowing their corpus had been examined by the Needle Murderer himself. In a loosely-formed network, all of the other Zoldycks had some kind of moniker associated with their particular brand of Nen -- one of Hisoka’s books even mentioned a tiny cult dedicated to the worship of “Padokean Orbs,” which fit the description of Silva’s transmuted aura weapons of choice. They would camp out below Kukuroo Mountain to get glimpses of what the author referred to as “nothing more than refracted headlights,” in order to unfavorably compare modern occultists to their ancient counterparts, who worshiped such dignified beings as the Sun and Moon. 

_Padokean Orbs…_ it was almost comical. All-in-all, from what Illumi could tell, witnesses numbered in the hundreds, and none had made connections between the Zoldycks and Nen, or even from one Nen-aided phenomena, death or otherwise, to another. _I’ll connect the dots for the Professor. I’ll have to tell him everything. Even about…_

Hisoka’s voice was in his head. “...the sicker the better...” 

Illumi drifted to sleep on the divan, one knee bent, one arm thrown over his eyes, unlocked phone on his chest. He awoke to a cool cleared throat, glowing golden eyes. “I thought you were going to bail on me, Little Mouth.” 

Illumi peered through heavy eyes. His face was warm; the small of his back aching. He’d been dreaming of sitting in the passenger seat of the professor’s car with his fingers folded over a cracked window. His nails were sturdy again, painted, pleasantly cold from the wind outside. Hisoka was driving, and driving, and driving. And now he was smiling down, hands on his hips. Illumi breathed. _Have I really been asleep that long?_

“Just kidding,” Professor Morow gleamed. He was wearing a pink dress shirt with ruffled sleeves and white slacks, belted inexplicably with a pale rope. “It’s only noon. But you look like you need a coffee.” 

“You look like a pirate,” Illumi mumbled, rolling to a seat.

“Really?” Hisoka looked down at himself, fanning his hands out in a sweeping motion. 

Illumi blinked. “It suits you, though.” The slacks tapered and split at Hisoka’s slim ankles, opened to square-heeled, red loafers. He stood up to meet the professor eye-to-eye. They were inches from each other; wide common area eyes had swiveled back to watch. Hisoka’s breath smelled like mint; his incisors were sharp; there was a single loose hair curling at the corner of his forehead. 

“Does that mean you want to go to lunch with me?”

Illumi’s eyes looped lazily over the ruffles on Hisoka’s sleeve before meeting his golden gaze. “Is that part of your job description, Professor?” His voice was only a breath above a whisper. 

“I swear on my honor, I shan’t lay a finger on you,” Hisoka’s eyes twinkled, the corners creasing as his mouth stretched wider. Illumi’s stomach squirmed. Keeping Hisoka’s gaze, he bent to shrug his bag over his shoulder. 

“Okay.” 

“Just to the library cafe, then? I have a class in thirty.” 

“Okay.”

Illumi hid his hands under the edges of his corduroy as they walked down the street to the cafe in the Yorknew library. 

Though Illumi hadn’t graced him with the fourth and final condition of their work together, Hisoka chatted eagerly about their upcoming research the moment they were hidden in a corner booth. He’d already emailed the Sahertan Academy of Religion for permission to conduct interviews, tracked down several online personas, he said, based on Illumi’s notes. “And I’ll have no problem getting the SAR to approve my presentation at Glam Gas with just an abstract… after all, I’ve presented for three years in a row…” 

“And you’re not nervous about...?” Illumi sipped his cappuccino, dotting his nose with cocoa powder dusted at the whipped peak of foam. It reminded him of the cookie he’d eaten in Hisoka’s bed. 

“Not at all,” Hisoka shrugged. “I’ve already got a few ideas about what we can say…” He must’ve noticed Illumi’s expression and realized he’d interrupted too soon. “Oh, you mean… Well, I think I’d be hard to kill. I’m basically a celebrity, after all. Besides, I’ll have you to protect me.” He bit an unbothered forkful of quiche. 

The statement was an unexpected shock to Illumi-- both that Hisoka seemed confident despite wholeheartedly trusting the threat of danger, and that he thought of Illumi as a protector. He could only sigh, poke the poached egg at the top of the salad Hisoka had bought for him until it burst. _For his sake, I hope he’s right about being difficult to kill._

Illumi thought back to the man with the cross tattoo, his menacing gaze. 

Professor Morow had already moved on to describing one of the interviewees he’d already heard back from. “She’s a shut-in, I think; can you believe that? Spends literally _days at a time_ on these forums… her handle is something witchy, ex-oh-ex-oh something. Palmistry? She was--” 

“Sounds like my brother,” Illumi said, without thinking. 

“Your brother?” Hisoka scooted to the edge of his seat, balancing his chin on pointed knuckles and taking a loud slurp of his iced something-or-other. 

“Ah…” Illumi wanted to pick his cuticles, but there was nothing left to pick, and his fingers were practically mummified. “Yeah, I have a younger brother who spends all of his time at the computer.” 

“And I suppose you don’t get along?”

“No.” It stung to admit. Before he’d begun training Killua, Illumi had spent countless hours curled up in Milluki’s room watching movies, playing first-person-shooters, laughing until his stomach burned. He’d always thought they’d bonded over being sons passed-over, but he’d known by Milluki’s dead-eyed stare at his arrival two years ago that he’d been wrong. ‘You’ve unraveled completely,’ he’d said, tongue like a whip. 

Professor Morow studied Illumi’s face, his expression suddenly shadowed. “Illumi, I’ve decided that I’d like to set my own conditions on our project. But I’ll tell you this evening.”

“Alright,” said Illumi, because there was nothing else to say. 

“I hope you like ghosts.” With a flash of eyes and teeth, Hisoka returned to his food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow burn slow burn slow burn slow burn
> 
> Thanks for reading !!!!!! <3


	9. Eternal Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But unlike anyone else, Hisoka had seen him like this before and returned. Had been able to, and wanted to.

The hours until sunset crawled by. After his twelve-thirty class, Hisoka curled up at his desk and combed through the notes once more, daydreaming of trap doors, teeth smeared with blood, and whatever twisted secrets would fall from Illumi Zoldyck’s mouth. As he dropped his cheek to his palm, he felt two scribbled eyes staring at him.  _ Ah. I can’t have that.  _ He plucked the sticky note Chrollo from his desk and rose, swiveling to face the single cabinet in the back corner of his office. When he pulled the door open, he had to hop out of the way of his bronze candelabrum as it smashed to the floor with all the bluster of a dropped silverware drawer. 

_That’s strange,_ Hisoka thought, pressing Chrollo to the inside of the door and blinking down at the spindly, four-armed thing as it wobbled to a stop. He only ever opened the cabinet to retrieve it twice a year, in order to terrorize his classes during finals. _Oh well,_ he shrugged, picking up the candelabrum and rolling it over in his hands, searching for scratches. Once he was confident that the antique detailing had survived its spill, he set it carefully back on the shelf, stroking one of its arms as if it were a small child. _Probably just the old building shifting._

“Professor?” 

Hisoka turned on his heel at the voice, mouth a lazy ‘o.’ Standing in the doorway behind gleaming glasses was a girl from his Friday seminar. Shorts and a tank top; cardigan around her waist, dark hair, and an intense gray stare. Not Illumi Zoldyck. 

“How can I help you?” Hisoka glided back to press his palms on the wood of his desk and give her a winning smile. Though she often stayed after class, he could not remember her name. 

“Well…” she shuffled and pulled a black iPhone from her pocket. “Illumi Zoldyck dropped his phone in the commons, and since I saw you with him, I was wondering if you would return it?” 

_ Ah.  _ Now that Hisoka thought about it, he did remember Illumi’s phone sliding off his stomach as he sat up, but both of them had been too distracted to remember it.  _ The girl knows his name, and she has good eyes…  _ The divan was tucked in a back corner of the common area, partially obscured by a fake tree, and Illumi was practically a shadow in Yorknew. Nonetheless, Hisoka reached for the phone; his fingertips brushing hers as he took it.  _ Cold hands.  _

“I’ll make sure he gets this, thank you.”  _ There’s something oddly familiar about her, but I can’t place it.  _ “Is that all?”

She blushed. “Well, Professor, I think that uh, Isaac Netero is here to see you.” 

Hisoka nearly dropped Illumi’s phone, which was glowing with notifications.  _ Damn, I wanted to look…  _ “Oh, really?” He hid his surprise and disappointment behind smoothing his hair back. 

“Yes,” Netero’s creaky voice wafted in. “This nice young lady actually led me to your office. It seems you’re quite popular with your students.”

Hisoka gritted his teeth as Netero appeared in the doorway. It had been months since he’d seen his old benefactor, though he felt the man’s impact each time he checked his bank account. Netero was wearing his usual black suit, the same neutral expression with which he regarded even the utmost perverse; his gold-ringed hands were folded over his stomach. Hisoka’s heart rate immediately picked up, but he kept smiling, and thanked the girl for her help. 

When she was gone, Netero took a slow seat in the armchair where Illumi had been perched that morning. Seeing his stooped body in Illumi’s place made it difficult for Hisoka to maintain eye contact as he settled in behind his desk. What’s more, Illumi’s reaction to hearing Netero’s name cast the old man in an entirely new light for Hisoka; where he used to admire Netero’s thirst for power, his pursuit of pleasure and esoterism, he now saw the shadowed outline of a predator, crawling onto his territory. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Hisoka finally bit out.  _ What are you going to ask me to do?  _

“Oh, no motive,” the old man replied, with his signature brand of menacing cheer, the sugared crust on the lip of a maple syrup bottle. “I was just in the area and decided to drop by.” 

_ Liar.  _ “Ah.”

“What have you been working on these days? You look well.” 

“Oh… this and that…”  _ Be honest, but not too honest.  _ “I’ve just started a new project with an undergraduate assistant, some New Babylon stuff; I’ll be submitting the abstract to the SAR soon… just the usual humdrum. Hoping to get a sabbatical in a few years…” Hisoka picked up a pencil from his desk and began fiddling with it absentmindedly. When Netero didn’t reply, he looked up to see the old man staring at him from underneath a heavy brow. 

His gravelly voice was sharp. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Morow,” he growled. “Remember who you’re loyal to, who made you.” 

_ Who, me?  _ Hisoka bit down on the edge of his tongue, anger slithering up his throat. “Of course.” He rubbed the pencil eraser on the wood of his desk, soothing himself with the image of Illumi, slow-breathing in the commons under a green corduroy sleeve. And then with the thought of the thumb drive wedged under his mattress: practically the Isaac Netero behind-the-scenes tour. 

“Good. That’s all,” Netero replied shortly, standing. 

Hisoka watched him leave, faintly smiling.  _ Perhaps I should’ve played at bemusement, but I should at least throw the geezer a bone. He has no idea what’s coming to him.  _

He glanced down at his watch. Three forty-five.  _ Yes, that should be enough time.  _

Illumi’s phone buzzed from where Hisoka had stuck it, between his thighs. Illumi had just received a text message from a Yorknew area code: “Meet at the usual in 20?” 

_ Hm. I wasn’t aware that Illumi had any ‘usuals.’  _

Aside from the text, Illumi also had over one-hundred notifications from several different Padokean area codes, calls, a few texts from a ‘Milluki,’ which were just several question marks, and a single ellipsis from a ‘Kalluto.’  _ I’m sure I’ll figure out the full story eventually,  _ Hisoka thought nonchalantly, clicking down the stairs of Dyer Hall, through the summer garden, and into his car. 

\---

Illumi remained listless in the cafe for several minutes after Hisoka left, staring at his half-eaten salad, the last foamy dregs of his cappuccino, and Hisoka’s empty chair. He hadn’t taken any pills since Saturday so that he could assess the professor, his situation, with a clear head, and nausea was sitting in his stomach like a wad of moss. Hisoka’s chair was doubling in his stare.  _ I’ll have you to protect me.  _ Just a throwaway line, searing into Illumi’s heart. He wanted to reach into his chest and hold the words there, still, so that they might become true. 

_ Realistically, we’ll both be executed by Silva before I even get the chance to--  _

He shook his head and stood up, shuddering at how ridiculous he must look to everyone around: a capsizing, reeking, green blob. His mouth tasted like yolk; smoke lingered on the corners of his lips no matter how many times he licked them. He patted his waistband for his phone, but it was flat. He patted all around his waist, peered in his pocket, ducked his head into his nylon bag. All empty.

_ Shit. _

He didn’t have a passcode either. It never left his fingertips.  _ It’s the withdrawal.  _

_ Shit.  _

_ Okay. It’s only been forty minutes. It’s an old model, and the students here are rich.  _ He smoothed his corduroy and forced himself to hold his breath for ten seconds before clearing his table and bursting past the library columns, his mind cycling through all worst-case-scenarios.  _ Pictures of my bare ass would be bad. Pictures from The Cemetery’s halloween party last year would be worse. Pictures of corpses would be catastrophic…  _ He’d always been methodical about destroying evidence in the beginning, but he got sloppier while training Killua. And when the memories didn’t hurt enough, he forced himself to scroll back and stare at the mangled gray things, zooming in on their fishlike eyes, their needled wounds. 

His shoes hit brick pavement. He was nervous, but not as nervous as he thought he’d be.  _ If someone finds the photos, then everything will be over quick.  _ He snapped his fingers and hissed at the pain that travelled up his arm.

Illumi was crossing the street, fingers laced in the tied-tight hair behind his ear, eyes on his shoes, when he collided with a smaller figure. He stepped back twice and stared. It was the man from the park, the man from his drawing; he was wearing a black bandana around his forehead tattoo, but his eyes were unmistakable. 

“Sorry,” he breathed, grinning slowly, pearl-white teeth peeking from full lips. Illumi realized the man hadn’t even stumbled. His pale arms were well-built under a slim-cut black t-shirt, and several thick chains gleamed at his throat. His pants had several pockets. He was handsome, Illumi realized, in daylight. If a bit owly, boyish, and narrow.  _ Hisoka’s ex-lover.  _

“You okay?” the man cocked his head childishly, menacingly. 

Illumi nodded, sidestepping, but he knew better. 

“Hey,” the man protested; Illumi found himself transfixed with the curling corners of his mouth. “Why don’t we talk? I can tell by your look that you’re jonesing right now, and I happen to be uniquely positioned to help…” He slipped a frigid hand into Illumi’s and led him across the street; Illumi’s heart pounded in his ears, but he could not deny the truth of the man’s words. He allowed himself to be led, as if in a trance.

“Chrollo, by the way. Lucilfer.” The man turned when he said his surname, eyes rolling up to meet Illumi’s, liquid ells behind his teeth; Illumi half-expected a forked tongue, but it was whole, flat and wet in his mouth. 

“Illu--,” Illumi started to say, but his name caught in his throat. 

“I know,” Chrollo replied coolly, stopping in front of a secluded bench. “You still have that searching look in your eyes from the other night-- I’m guessing you didn’t find what you were looking for?” 

Illumi was holding every muscle in his face still, but the effort required rendered him speechless. They were standing in the shade of two willows in front of the Life Sciences hall; the humidity from the weekend had sloughed off and a soft breeze was ruffling Illumi’s hair, curling into his open mouth. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said finally, hushed. “What did you want to speak with me about?”

“I just happen to know a bit about your predicament,” Chrollo replied, sliding long fingers into one of his many pockets.

Alarms were sounding in Illumi’s mind-- Hisoka had admitted to knowing him, but he hadn’t said much.  _ Does it bother me that they’re clearly still in contact? How much does Chrollo know?  _ On Friday, Chrollo had called him a toy. He’d barely thought of it then, but now, it bit at his composure.  _ Hisoka, Professor Morow, said you hate him.  _ His voice echoed in his head; he realized with a suppressed gasp that he’d said it out loud.

Chrollo only laughed. “He says that about everyone. But you know-- he’s impossible to truly hate. You should never trust him, however. Even if he can be temporarily ensnared…”

Illumi felt as if he was swallowing ice cubes. The nausea curled and stretched in his stomach. Chrollo’s pocket clacked under his fingers, as if he were fiddling with dice.

Chrollo raised his voice a decibel. “ _ Do _ you wish to ensnare Hisoka?” 

Illumi swallowed the last of the freeze and made up his mind. “No. I trust Professor Morow.” 

Chrollo’s pocket crunched, his face twisted: the face of Illumi’s victims in the moment they realized he wasn’t an escort; a rush of violence, a shock of fear. But it soon melted into neutrality. He tutted, pushed something into Illumi’s hand, which Illumi hadn’t realized he’d been holding loose in front of his gut, the way he wielded the needles. His eyes were on Chrollo’s, marvelling at the shift. The object crinkled against his palm.

“This baggy contains a dose of clonazepam, of course, but, in case you change your mind, I threw in some of my own work as well: Eternal Return, or ER, a... product I developed to simulate a Dionysian rite…” Chrollo’s voice was like silk. “...Back when the good professor was just getting started, he claimed it helped him put things into perspective. It was a long process. A lot of research, intimacy… we had to experiment to develop the perfect mix of fear and pleasure.” His eyes were bursting with mischief. “Suffice it to say, they’ll bring you to your knees, make you scream epiphanies...” 

Illumi gripped the baggy, bewildered. “Why?”  _ Is he… competing? _

“Hmm,” Chrollo replied, shifting his weight onto one hip and tapping his lower lip. “I suppose I see a bit of myself in you. And I’ve been thirsting to cause a little chaos. Anyway, if you need me, my products, I’ll be around… and if you need friends, I have many.” 

There was something of Hisoka in him, but it was coiled and scaled where Hisoka was all liquid. Illumi crinkled the plastic in his palm. For years he’d trusted no one but his family, and now?  _ Now what?  _

Illumi pocketed the capsules, which were the color of wine, blood. His heartbeat was a mallet against his ribs. After a few more parting words, Chrollo slunk away.

_ I could be jealous, but his name wasn’t even in Hisoka’s mouth,  _ Illumi thought, reaching into his pocket.

  
  


Deciding to forgo too much thought until he saw the professor that evening, Illumi took the Klonopin, letting it dissolve bitter on his tongue as he stood beneath the willows. The sky went pearl; his mind went flush.

Illumi went to his one o’clock seminar for the first time, sitting in the back of the small lecture hall, his chin cupped in his palm. The other students leaned in to hear the elderly professor speak, but Illumi was used to soft-spokenness, he realized, because his grandfather Zeno rarely piped up past a whisper.  _ Well, really, it runs in the family.  _

The class --on Ancient Kakin Mysticism-- passed surprisingly quickly; there was a group discussion about ritual invocations, the veneration and invitation of a god, during which front-rowers climbed over each other to define terms in increasingly arcane ways. It was interesting to watch this kind of benign competition, for which the punishment was a different shape of ink rather than the scream of a whip on sore muscles. Illumi even answered a question, dreamily uttering ‘eternal return’ for the first time aloud since beginning his major and earning himself twenty participation points. Of course, all he could think of when he said it were the wine-colored pills in his breast pocket. 

The pills felt heavy as bullets when Illumi walked up the Dyer Hall stairs toward Professor Morow’s office. He pressed against them with his palm and, with a whimper, remembered his missing phone. The shock pierced his chemical bliss so sharply that he stopped mid-step.  _ I forgot. I--  _

The sun was sinking, bleeding orange outside the window.  _ I’ll be late--  _

He turned and ran back down the stairs, slowing to a walk when he reached the second floor, pounded down the tiers and-- 

Hisoka was sitting, no, lounging on the divan, flicking through a book, a pen between his teeth. Illumi almost sighed with pleasure at the sight of him, rippling with a pleasant deja vu. Somehow, despite everything, Professor Morow’s presence made it okay that evidence of his murderous past was potentially floating around the school.  _ Must be the drugs…  _

The Professor sat up, running a hand through his hair.  _ I thought you were going to bail on me, Little Mouth,  _ Illumi imagined him saying. He thought of The Cemetery and a breath snagged in his throat. 

“Illumi,” Professor Morow had risen to a stand, laughing and snapping his fingers gently. 

Illumi almost lost himself and smiled back, but he bit it at the last second, and put up a hand. “Sorry. Got distracted.” 

“Hmm,” Hisoka replied. “I was hoping for a bit more distress…” he produced a black iPhone from his back pocket. “...especially considering the hours of entertainment housed on this little guy.” 

“Fuck…” Illumi breathed, realizing he’d forgotten about his phone again. The professor was prattling on, but his words were bloated, bouncing off the inside of Illumi’s head as the clonazepam dumbed down the rush of anxiety.  _ Didn’t know you… dancing…  _ he heard Hisoka say.  _ And…  _

“Some interesting… bodies.” He tapped Illumi’s phone against his palm. 

_ He knows.  _

_ But he was laughing?  _

_ The sicker the better.  _ Tap, tap, tap.

Illumi stared at Hisoka, whose narrow golden eyes were pooling with sunset. 

“So, was I right?” 

_ What? _

He picked up Illumi’s hand with his, flattening it, and placed the phone on top of Illumi’s palm. “I didn’t look.” 

With a heavy sigh, Illumi closed his fingers around his phone. “Thanks for finding it for me, Professor.” 

“Of course,” Hisoka replied. “Now, I have to retrieve some items of utmost import from my office, and then we’ll go discuss your conditions, and mine.” 

Trailing behind Professor Morow, Illumi could not stop swallowing, locking and unlocking his phone. The professor hadn’t been lying; notifications were still stacked on his lock screen. He thought back to the first time they’d met, when Hisoka had practically looked through his character from only a few academic data points. In a way, what Netero had said about him rang true-- he  _ was  _ dangerous, in his ability to read others, his unpredictability in the face of it. Chrollo had had a similar literacy about him, but his had seemed intentional, designed to unsettle. The Professor simply looked, and when he looked, he saw. And he enjoyed poking at the image, like a child sitting over a pond. 

The ‘items of utmost import’ turned out to be a keyring and a massive bronze candelabrum, nearly three feet long, which Hisoka toted in one hand. “For the drama,” he explained, giving Illumi four long, white candles and a box of matches. With a triumphant, “Follow me,” swept down the hall like Dracula, too quickly for Illumi to question him. Around a bend which Illumi had never seen stood a lonely wooden door with a padlock hanging above a weathered, antique-looking handle. Hisoka shook the key ring, selecting the largest, longest key, and slid it into the lock, which fell open easily in his hand. “Supposedly,” he said, turning to Illumi, who was still clutching his phone with both hands, along with the candles and matches. “I was the first to get this key to work in two decades.”

Illumi took a deep breath, forcing himself back to the relief he’d felt when he’d seen Hisoka, diamond-legged and sideways on the divan. “Where does it lead?” 

“Down,” Hisoka replied, putting his hand out. Illumi passed him the candles, which he wedged into the candelabrum, and then the box of matches, from which he plucked one to light and dot the four wicks, filling the doorway with a flickering yellow glow. Illumi immediately noticed a push-button lightswitch just on the inside.

“It doesn’t work,” Hisoka said quickly, with a sweep of his hand. 

“Maybe you need to change the lightbulb.” 

Down and down and down they went, jingling through two more padlocked doors until they stood in a landing room of sorts, before a large, round hatch. It hung slightly open and creaked in anticipation. Judging by the amount of stairs, they had descended at least one-hundred feet underground; the air was chill, thick, and musty. 

“What is this?” Illumi shivered. His words bounced off the walls, as if ten Illumis had spoken in unison. Hisoka had been uncharastically silent on their journey, red-faced, wearing an evil grin. His hair, swaying out of its styling more and more with each step, had looked especially flame-like in the candlelight. 

“A good place for secrets,” Hisoka pulled open the hatch, which whined on its rusted hinges like an animal, and ducked through. 

Illumi followed, pulling his hands into his sleeves to avoid touching anything slimy. The germs in his apartment were one thing, but this was centenarian grime, and he wasn’t sure how well his Zoldyck immune system would hold up after five years idle. 

The hatch opened to a wide-open, rounded space, pitch-black except for the flickering light of the candelabrum, and puddling under his shoes. He could hear water drops, things scurrying through the wet. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Hisoka’s voice boomed all around, his expression giddy.

“Tunnels,” said Illumi, taking a cautious step forward. He could feel Hisoka’s body heat. 

Humming, the professor turned in a circle, shining the light all around; it caught faded graffiti, ominous bronze splatter, something thin and pale,  _ a rat’s jawbone _ , Illumi realized, and then a vertebra. Unphased, Hisoka fell still; and then, with a jerk of his wrist and a quirk of his smile, the flames dissolved into smoke, and they were swallowed by darkness.

_ Oh.  _ Illumi pressed his hand to his heart, crawled upward to grip its opposite shoulder. An involuntary defense.  _ He’s taking away his sight, his power,  _ Illumi thought, feeling his heart jump against his forearm.  _ I can…  _ Illumi relaxed his face with a silent exhale, imagined Hisoka’s, and smiled with the heel of his palm to his mouth. 

“What do you think?” Hisoka asked, his voice thick with some unnamable emotion. There was a small splash, and Illumi felt the puff of breath on his cheek. “See? I’m waving my hand in front of your face, and you can’t see a thing, can you?” 

Not one to betray himself, Illumi gave a curt reply and pressed the emotion from his tone. “Was this really necessary, Professor?” 

“Well no,” Hisoka laughed. “But necessity and pleasure are often two very different things.” Illumi could imagine his face, impish. Without the indulgent glee, his voice sounded sinister, sinew pull, intoxicating. He pressed his fingers together; the ache on his healing wounds kept him grounded. 

Hisoka continued, “This brings me to my conditions, without which I will not help you.” He took a deep breath, and Illumi’s stomach swooped. “First, from now on, bar serious illness or emergency, you’ll attend all five of your classes and you will maintain a passing grade in each of them. Second, you will stop the incessant picking of your cuticles.” He spoke slowly, the pace not matching the frantic words which followed. “I will pay for you to get a manicure, or custom gloves, or the medication you need to stop, but I will tear every last hair out of my head if I have to see you peel your skin off one more time.” He paused, presumably to collect himself. “And third…” he moved forward until a still-warm arm of the candelabrum pressed against Illumi’s temple, and the very edges of his lips brushed the hand that was protecting Illumi’s smile. Illumi pressed the hand further, silencing his breath. “You will not be mad when I break my short-lived promise…” 

With a wet crash which reverberated through the tunnel like a rockslide, Hisoka dropped the candelabrum and peeled Illumi’s hand off of his mouth, yanking his wrist to the side of his face. Their open mouths were inches apart, breathing into each other. Hisoka pressed himself to Illumi, their hearts beat, and their chests heaved. “Are you scared?” Hisoka’s voice was low, heavy. 

“Professor,” Illumi whispered, feeling himself harden against Hisoka’s thigh. “I--” His eyes fluttered shut and he shuddered as Hisoka’s fingers found his throat, thumb gliding over the ripple of his Adam’s apple, nails tickling the downy hair at his nape. 

“I won’t be there to protect you.” Illumi suppressed a gasp. 

Hisoka squeezed gently against Illumi’s windpipe and purred into his mouth, “What do you mean?” He ran his tongue along the rim of Illumi’s upper lip. 

“I mean--” Lips pressed to the corner of his mouth. “I mean that--” Tongue hot against the point of his jaw.  _ Fuck.  _ Hisoka ground his thigh into Illumi’s erection, sucking the hollow behind his ear. 

With his trembling free hand, Illumi reached into his breast pocket, pushing past the baggy until his fingers found the familiar rounded base of a needle. He pulled it out gently and held it still, biting down on his lip to keep himself silent as Hisoka pushed him slowly against the cold tunnel wall. 

“This-- is what-- I mean,” Illumi managed, closing his eyes and letting a thin trickle of aura run down his finger.  _ Be still.  _ He slid the needle painlessly into an acupoint at the back of Hisoka’s neck. 

The professor went limp against him, slackened his grip on Illumi’s wrist and neck. Illumi felt a perverse rush. “Kneel,” he breathed.

He heard Hisoka fall to his knees, felt his forehead slide down his stomach as he went, to rest on his upper thigh. Illumi worked his jaw, thought of burying his fingers in Hisoka’s hair, moving him to… but instead he bent, slid the needle out, and closed his eyes when the professor exhaled a ragged moan. “Oh my god, Illumi,” he hiccuped. “What  _ was  _ that...I…” 

“Nen,” Illumi replied, kneeling in front of Hisoka so that their noses touched. Cold water bloomed against his bare knees. “My family, the Zoldycks, and a select few others use Nen to commit high-profile assassinations for V6 governments, mobs, and anyone with enough cash to pay.” 

“Ah,” Hisoka panted, dragging a hand up to curl over Illumi’s shoulder. “So when we…”

“Yes, my goal is revenge. To expose my family’s crimes. I believe there is a way for me to protect my younger brothers, but--”

“Mm, Illumi…” Hisoka pushed his lips against Illumi’s, drew his hand to twine in Illumi’s hair, pulling at the hair-tie. “I gladly accept the conditions… the danger… I’ll do what you ask me… if you’ll…” he groaned, pulling Illumi’s head back for a deeper kiss. 

_ I can’t think.  _ “A match,” Illumi half-whimpered, opening his mouth for Hisoka’s tongue, the suck of his lips, the pinch of teeth. 

“Mm,” Hisoka pushed the matchbox to Illumi’s palm, and then struck one between them, the heat exploding against Illumi’s collarbone. They drew apart, the small flame angling Hisoka’s features. His hair was a mess, his lips beestung and shining, his eyes burning. Illumi knew his own eyes were soft, that his expression was dripping with arousal. But unlike anyone else, Hisoka had seen him like this before and returned. Had been able to, and wanted to. 

Illumi’s heart beat into his mouth. “I accept your conditions… Hisoka.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies to Hisoka, and to anyone who actually studies/d RelSt. Thanks for letting me appropriate your hard work. I extend zero (0) apologies to Mircea Eliade (for being a fash) and zero to Isaac Netero (for being a weird old coot).
> 
> ENDLESS thanks to everyone who's stuck with me thus far! I promise on my life this thing isn't going to culminate in a dry academic conference and a quadruple arrest........


	10. Dionysus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment they were swathed in darkness once again, Hisoka cupped Illumi’s face. “Smile, Illumi. Show me.”

As usual, nothing had gone according to plan. 

Hisoka had planned to control himself, had planned to make good on his promise not to wedge himself between Illumi and his self-destruction. But then, he’d felt Illumi smile in the pitch dark, the stinking playground he’d spent many idle hours wandering through. In truth, he’d had the original key altered to match one he’d acquired from Chrollo before cutting him loose with the hacksaw of a plea deal. 

There were bodies thrown in the tunnels-- drug deals gone bad, the gray remnants of sour rivalries-- which Hisoka planned to show Illumi in exchange for his secrets. The Phantoms had been good to him for a time, treated him like family, but he would have thrown their bodies down if he’d had to, even planned for that eventuality. The Yorknew District Attorney had gotten to him first, imagining himself a just malignancy:  _ You’re a smart boy, Morow. Let me help you save yourself from this mess.  _

But Hisoka had only made more mess, smeared himself with it. And now, he’d betrayed again-- Netero, the one who’d placed him behind his tenure-track desk -- to protect the new, soft-winged murderer whimpering in his arms. He’d tell Illumi what he’d done later. For now, his priorities were elsewhere. 

Hisoka pressed the match to his tongue, exhaling at the pinch, and relishing in the last moments of Illumi’s kiss-wrecked features: the shock and want in his eyes, the smudge of red on his chin, the beginnings of a love-bruise behind his ear. The moment they were swathed in darkness once again, Hisoka cupped Illumi’s face. “Smile, Illumi. Show me.” 

Illumi sighed plaintively, but Hisoka felt with his thumb as Illumi’s lips puckered and curved at the ends. Hisoka’s heart burned. He traced over Illumi’s teeth, catching the corner of his mouth and nudging it open for his. Illumi kissed back, mewling and rolling himself against Hisoka, tanging his fingers in Hisoka’s hair. It was even sweeter now to know that Illumi had the power to render Hisoka completely powerless, with his  _ Nen,  _ he’d said, and had given Hisoka just enough of a taste for him to know the menace of it. 

“You’re hard for me?” Hisoka whispered, trailing kisses up Illumi’s jaw to his ear.

“Yes,” Illumi gasped, grabbing a handful of hair at the nape of Hisoka’s neck. 

Hisoka swallowed, feeling his own cock swell against Illumi’s stomach as he bent to plant a few more wet kisses on Illumi’s mouth. “And what do you want me to do about it?” 

The air in the tunnel was cold, they were kneeling in the shallows of icy water, but Hisoka could feel sweat beading on Illumi’s skin, dampness between his legs as he wedged his thigh against Illumi’s trapped erection. 

“I…” Illumi hiccuped as Hisoka snaked his hand underneath his shirt, popping a few buttons, catching a nipple between his fingers and squeezing. “Ah… I want…” Hisoka pinched the other nipple, opened Illumi’s shirt completely and began licking down his chest. He dazedly remembered the bruise when Illumi groaned and shuddered. 

“Do you like when it hurts?” Hisoka asked, pressing his forehead against a patch of raised skin. He felt Illumi’s Adam’s apple bob against the crown of his head, a cold drop of saliva following. 

“P-Please,” Illumi stammered. “I want you, Hisoka…” 

It felt like a victory to hear him say it, voice high and tight between sharp breaths. Hisoka never thought he’d be here, the location of so much personal horror, with the first person he could not imagine leaving to rot in the damp. 

“Be good then…” He pushed three fingers into Illumi’s hot mouth, pressing them down on the back of Illumi’s tongue until he gagged. Illumi was panting when Hisoka drew them out, tensing when he slid his hand past Illumi’s elastic waistband, trembling when he curled his middle finger toward Illumi’s entrance. Hisoka pressed against the tight hole, enjoying the small sounds Illumi was making, hard and straining against him. He rubbed small circles, loosening the gap, and Illumi dropped his forehead to Hisoka's shoulder, pressed his bandaged fingers to the back of Hisoka's shirt.  _ I want to see him.  _ Illumi’s mouth opened over his collarbone. Hisoka pushed a finger inside and Illumi bit down, warbling.  _ I want to see his face.  _

“Illumi,” Hisoka whispered, adding his ring finger and scissoring lightly. 

Illumi breathed in response, biting the sting. 

“Let’s go back to my place. I want to see your face when I put it in you.” 

Illumi moaned softly, releasing Hisoka’s collarbone and nodding. “Okay… okay…” He squealed when Hisoka wrenched his fingers back out, and Hisoka’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment at the tidal wave of pleasure that swept through his body. 

“How do you know about this place?” Illumi asked, when they had caught their breath. With the help of four matches, Hisoka had retrieved the candelabrum and was lighting the fourth candle, which had shrunk to about half its size. His heart was still racing, his mind replaying every moan, hiccup, and gasp Illumi had made. Illumi was flushed, his eyes were sparkling with candlelight as he pulled his hair back up into its ponytail. The top button of his corduroy was lost to the elements when Hisoka had desperately wrenched it apart. 

“I used to come down here with friends, when I was young. It was like… a secret hideout.” 

Illumi fished his nylon bag out of a puddle, wringing it out. Hisoka cringed.  _ That filthy water should not touch his bandages… I’ll change them when we get back.  _

“Friends?” Illumi asked, blinking, slinging the wet bag over his shoulder. 

“Jesus, Illumi,” Hisoka chuckled. Though, Illumi’s complete lack of tact was becoming one of Hisoka’s favorite things about him. “Yes, friends. I am capable of making them, it’s just that I don’t tend to keep them.” He recalled, with a small smile, the snarling blonde woman who had doused his car in gasoline, Chrollo’s glassy eyes when he’d come home to Hisoka straddling his best friend, and the final horror on his face when DEA agents had beat down his door. He wondered how Netero would look in his mugshots.  _ Oh yes, I can ruin friendships…  _

“Mm,” Illumi replied. They began splashing back toward the hatch. “I can’t imagine you younger.” 

Hisoka grinned. “I was wild,” he said. “Much nastier than I am now.” 

“Me too,” Illumi agreed, nodding sagely. Hisoka reached out to tuck a stray hair behind Illumi’s ear, and they stopped walking for a moment, caught in each others’ eyes. 

“Prof-- Hisoka, have you ever killed someone?” Illumi asked, point-blank. 

Hisoka’s heart jumped. “Yes,” he replied. “Once by accident. Twice on purpose. I count killing among the lesser of my sins, however.” 

“Violently?” 

Hisoka pulled the hatch open. “Is this really what you want to talk about now?”

“Yes,” Illumi replied. “I want to know.” 

“Alright, I’ll tell you. The first person was a friend. We were experimenting with drugs-- disgusting, dangerous stuff. I pressured him and he choked on his own vomit while we slept. I was fifteen, he was fourteen. And then, I went after the dealer, who was, at the time, just an ordinary runner for the mob.”  _ Chrollo. _

“I didn’t kill him, though. He was… different than I expected. He let me tackle him, press my knife to his throat, peaceful as a priest. And it disarmed me. I started talking. He cried when I told him about my friend, and after that, I lost my nerve. I think out of guilt, he found work for me, running some of his supply, and two years later, he was the boss of his own group and I was his right hand. He wasn’t naturally violent, but occasionally things got… out of hand, especially when it came to group loyalty. We executed a defector, or, I did, just, beat him to death in some alley. And then, we went after the gang he’d defected to. Twenty people in all, but I only dealt with one. A girl, same age as me. Some of the other members liked to play with their food a bit more, but I never saw the point. The dead have no memory, so I shot her in the head.”

Illumi was nodding, his arms crossed tightly. He didn’t appear the slightest bit alarmed by Hisoka’s cavalier description of what some would consider deeply traumatic.  _ He understands that it’s just survival.  _

“And you were never caught?”

“Ah, that’s a story for another day. Now it’s your turn.” 

Without missing a beat. “Oh, I’ve lost count.” Illumi’s eyes were blank, his mouth still.

“Do you really keep photos of the bodies on your phone?”

“Only the worst ones.” 

For several minutes, the only sound was their shoes against the stairs. Hisoka wondered if he would ever tell Illumi about Chrollo, fully tell him. It was six months until Glam Gas.  _ Six months. How will we fill the time?  _ And then, more importantly,  _ how will I fill the time tonight?  _ The possibilities were quite endless.  _ How will I unravel him?  _

“Hisoka.” Illumi broke the silence unexpectedly as they reached the final staircase.

“Yes?”

“I think I’ll have to teach you Nen.” 

Hisoka’s chest tingled.  _ I was hoping you’d say that.  _ Just before he opened the last door, he pulled Illumi close and kissed him on the mouth, marveling at how quickly Illumi folded against him, how soft he felt in his arms. “You’ll be the death of me, Little Mouth.” 

Illumi pulled back, licked his lips, and said, very seriously, “That’s a distinct possibility.” 

The drive home passed like the blur of a dream in daylight. Hisoka went through the motions he always did-- pulled into the garage, his spot on the first floor; took the second elevator up to the sixteenth; tapped his keycard and listened for the satisfying mechanical click. But he did all this with Illumi demure on his arm, closed-lipped and wide-eyed, as if it was the first time he’d been there. In a way, it was. There was no suggestion of lure, as there had been the time before; now, the line had been cast, and Hisoka was dangling from it with a jester’s smile, but the water was clear. 

“My knees are dirty,” Illumi observed when he bent to unclasp the buckles on his shoes. 

_ Oh.  _ “I’ll change the sheets,” Hisoka replied quickly. He wouldn’t wait for a shower. His hands were already itching to close around Illumi’s slim hips, snake under the spandex.  _ Oh god.  _ Illumi stood, wobbling, hands opening and closing. Barefooted, he was a hair’s width shorter than Hisoka. They stared at each other with all the grace of drunken college students. Hisoka reached past him to flip the deadbolt, and then they were falling into each other, lips nudging greedily. 

Hisoka hummed against Illumi’s mouth, gripped Illumi’s ass with both hands, gathering the pliant flesh in his palms, then swiped lower, catching the insides of Illumi’s knees and sweeping him off his feet. He carried him, like he had the first time, only now Illumi was fire-flushed, sucking on his neck and squirming. Dragging his lips down, Illumi crossed his ankles over the small of Hisoka’s back and used the leverage to press the beginnings of an erection, hot and damp, against Hisoka’s stomach. His forehead was buried in Hisoka’s shoulder, mouth muffled. 

“We’re almost there,” Hisoka grabbed Illumi’s ponytail and wrenched his neck back to kiss him as he pushed through the door to his bedroom. 

Illumi was a blushing, trembling mess when Hisoka set him down on the chest at the end of his bed. The lights were off, but windows were wide open to them, twinkling blue, yellow, purple, over Hisoka’s trim furniture, over Illumi as he unbuttoned, dropping the corduroy over his shoulders. The bruise across his chest had soured throughout the day, yellowed in the center and puckered at the sides. Hisoka pressed his palm into it and Illumi hissed, leaned back on his wrists, sighing, lengthening the lines of his body. Hisoka surveyed him slowly with eyes and fingers: the flutter of his eyelashes, the part of his lips, the slope of his shoulders, the line running down the center of his tensing stomach, obscured only by the wrinkle of the half-discarded shirt around his waist. Illumi’s legs were open, his feet were curled around the edge of the chest, and he was painfully hard, straining against his shorts.

“Please,” he managed, opening one eye to meet Hisoka’s. 

“Please what?” Hisoka replied, feigning nonchalance even as heat licked the insides of his thighs. Half of him wanted to strip, fuck wildly, disrespectfully. But he would complete the rite; the sacred first. He strode to his window as Illumi stumbled over a response, surveyed the neat row of toys and selected a delicate glass dildo about two-thirds his own size.  _ This should be good.  _ He retrieved a small bottle of lube from the bedside table and slathered the toy with it before setting it down between Illumi’s split legs with a hollow tap. 

Triumphant as Illumi gazed down at the toy, Hisoka put his hands on his hips, leaned forward to bite Illumi’s lower lip, kiss the corner of his mouth. “I want to see you,” he whispered, finally pulling the tie around his slacks. He sighed melodramatically as his erection bounced free, and he smiled when he saw Illumi pull at his own waistband, watched as he wriggled from his shorts, falling down onto the mattress behind him as he kicked them off. Illumi looked shocked as he lay there, cock curving slightly against his stomach, chest heaving, staring up at Hisoka. 

_ Oh god.  _ Hisoka gripped the base of his own length, reached down for the dildo as Illumi threaded his elbows through his knees, bringing them to his chest. His expression was almost pleading. 

“You’re beautiful,” Hisoka breathed, dropping his act for a second and letting his eyes soften. Illumi went redder, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. His breaths trembled, his hands strained against his knees.

“J-just put it in me, Hisoka…” he mumbled, like the words were too large for his throat. “I’m ready…” 

Hisoka chuckled, and squeezed another line of lube onto the toy before pressing it against Illumi’s entrance. “As you wish,” he said. Illumi’s eyes popped as he stretched around the thin end of the toy, and rolled when Hisoka pushed it to the base. He gasped and rolled his hips, pressing his lips together and squeezing his eyes shut. Precum pearled at his slit. Feeling cruel, Hisoka yanked the toy out and pushed it back in, grinning as Illumi’s mouth fell open to a moan he couldn’t suppress. 

“Now sit up,” Hisoka purred, still pressing the base of the dildo. He leaned forward and gathered Illumi’s ponytail in his fist, pulling him upright onto the chest once again. Illumi was still slackjaw; he whimpered as he sat up on his heels, squirming as he bore his ass down between his feet. 

Hisoka bent, still holding himself, and flicked his thumb over Illumi’s weeping slit, making him wince. “How do you feel?”

“I-I… I feel good…” Illumi rasped, cracking his eyes open. Every move made a small sound in the back of his throat, which made Hisoka feel like he was going insane. “C-can I…” Illumi’s bleary gaze focused on Hisoka’s proud erection. 

“Mn…” Hisoka stroked himself slowly with the hand still slick with lube; Illumi’s eyes followed. Hisoka considered the floor before digging his fingers into Illumi’s hair again and climbing up so that his feet hugged Illumi’s thighs. Illumi snaked his arms around Hisoka’s calves to hold him still, and rolled his black eyes up as Hisoka pushed himself into Illumi’s open mouth, sighing as he was surrounded in warmth. 

“Fuck, Illumi,” Hisoka hissed as Illumi sucked the air from his mouth, moving back and forth with swirls of his tongue. “You’re…  _ good. _ ” He hadn’t expected this. It was work to stay stable as Illumi coaxed him closer and closer to climax with his mouth.

“Mmm,” Illumi hummed around Hisoka’s length, throat muscles tensing dangerously. 

_ This can’t go on…  _ Hisoka pushed faster in and out of Illumi’s mouth, making him gasp and sputter, saliva dripping in strings onto his thighs. Tears gathered in Illumi’s eyes before Hisoka pulled out, let him catch his breath, and to his surprise, Illumi coughed, and then broke into a shaky, radiant smile. 

“Fuck…” he said with a hoarse laugh. “Ah…” He looked down at himself, the clear lines of precum dripping down his cock. 

“Illumi…” Hisoka stepped back down to the ground, catching himself on Illumi’s shoulder before pushing him on his back again. Illumi went obediently, with a little coy smile, raising his legs, angling his hips upward. 

“Hisoka…” he murmured, blinking. The glass dildo protruded temptingly from his hole. 

“So you want me to fuck you now?” Hisoka flashed an evil grin, splaying his fingers over the base of the toy and pulling it out slowly. Illumi sighed and nodded, his lashes fluttering at the pull, and then he yelped when Hisoka plunged the dildo back into him, pushing and pulling rapidly, almost sadistically. Illumi threw his arms over his head, grabbing the sheets, raising his hips and keening. Hisoka watched for a while, stroking himself lazily with his free hand, as Illumi’s eyes rolled, the muscles in his stomach clenching and releasing, his beautiful, upward-sloping cock wobbling as he moved. Soft hiccup-moans pushed past his gritted teeth.  _ Illumi. _

Satisfied with the chaos he’d caused, and unable to wait any longer, Hisoka finally popped the dildo out. He let Illumi relax for a second before climbing on top of him, planting a sloppy kiss on his trembling lips. His own cock was aching, still warm from Illumi’s mouth, but he was committed to prolonging his orgasm for as long as possible, teasing himself to insanity. “Talk to me, Illumi,” he whispered against Illumi’s mouth. “Open yourself up for me…”

“Ah…” Illumi raised his hips and spread his legs wider, splaying his fingers out around his hole as Hisoka angled his cock, ready to push inside. They were chest-to-chest, a tangle of limbs, stray hairs. Illumi’s forehead shone with sweat. “Hisoka…” he said, and Hisoka pushed. 

_ Ah.  _ Pleasure burst Hisoka’s vision. Even with all the preparation, Illumi’s walls still stretched and squeezed around him, and Hisoka stuttered to a stop, barely inside, digging his fingers into the sheets next to Illumi’s head and closing his eyes to halt the rush of warmth tearing through him. “You’re tight…” he murmured as a sticky tear rolled down Illumi’s cheeks, catching at the corner of his open mouth. He was breathing heavily, as if in pain. Hisoka waited for a protest which never came. 

_ I’ll need to play just a bit longer…  _

“Tell me, Illumi, what are the things which drew you to me?” He pushed himself a touch deeper and Illumi raked his fingers through his own hair, curling in on himself, begging silently.

“I won’t,” Hisoka teased, cupping Illumi’s jaw, pinching his earlobe. “Not until you talk to me. Tell me what you think...”

Illumi’s eyes widened, and he took several deep breaths. “Mm… you…saw me,” Illumi gritted out. “And… didn’t… l-lie to me…” another hot tear. 

“How did I see you?” Hisoka pushed in further, almost bottoming out, relishing the shudder and the ragged moan. He was barely clinging to sanity himself. Each move, each sound Illumi made, sent a shockwave through Hisoka’s chest and stomach.

“Y-you saw… a-all of me… all at once… ah, p-please, Hisoka…” Illumi reached for Hisoka’s face and pulled it to his, kissing him roughly, desperately, running his tongue over Hisoka’s teeth and wrenching his hips, forcing himself to the base of Hisoka’s cock with a faint cry.

_ That’s…  _ “More,” Hisoka demanded, biting down on Illumi’s lip and beginning to fuck him slowly, dragging himself in and out. “More, Illumi.”

Illumi matched Hisoka’s rhythm with his hips, still keening and wincing with each pump. His words, barely a whisper, grew more confident as he went. “I like… your mind… ah… y-your eyes, your hands, your…” Hisoka went faster, leaning over Illumi and sinking his teeth into his neck. 

“And?” he growled.

“Your cock, ah, I love it…” Illumi practically whined.

“Mm,” Hisoka pushed himself deeper, making Illumi yelp when he wrenched almost completely out, leaning back, surveying the mess he’d made of his beautiful friend. He took Illumi’s dripping cock in his hand, slicking up and down the length with a knit brow and a half-crazed grin.

“Fuck!” Illumi cried, eyes bursting open. Hisoka felt Illumi’s cock pulse in his palm as he jammed himself back into Illumi’s hole. 

“Hisoka… Hisoka… I’m gonna… you’re gonna make m-me…” Hisoka let Illumi’s cock roll from his hands, bracing his forearms against the backs of Illumi’s thighs, and fucking Illumi mercilessly as he came, sobbing and whimpering, over his stomach and chest, hands in Hisoka’s hair, hips rocking desperately. 

And then, with a low moan, Hisoka followed. Pleasure blinded him, white-hot, for a moment, as he emptied himself into Illumi, whispering his name like a prayer. 

\---

Illumi had to be carried to the shower, his head lolling on Hisoka’s chest, and set on the marble seat in the corner, under pulses of warm water. The shower was glass, swirling white and gray, filling with heat and steam. Illumi was folded in half, watching the trail of dirt from his body circle down the drain. “You’re a mess,” Hisoka observed, almost proudly, all the bluster and sincerity of their coupling now a ghost in his impish features. The water flattened his hair in ringlets over his forehead, down his long neck. Illumi traced a lazy eye over Hisoka’s sculpted body: the rippling stomach, jutting hip bones, rounded, tapered thighs of a regular Adonis. And his half-hard cock, smooth, red at the tip and flanked by soft, blond curls.  _ I can’t believe I fit that…  _

“We have our work cut out for us,” Hisoka was saying, maddeningly unaware of himself as he picked up Illumi’s limp hand, and examined the damp bandages, raised to the balls of his feet and peered down Illumi’s vertebrae. “But you’re not the only one with magic powers here.” 

Illumi could only muster a quizzical look, though his heart squeezed.  _ Was he only feigning ignorance?  _ The thought, which would normally be anxious screaming, was only a dull whisper between his ears as he returned to his lusty haze.

“Turn around, face the wall,” Hisoka grinned. “I’m an expert at cleaning down there. A practical wizard.” 

Illumi flinched.  _ Should’ve known.  _ “You bastard,” he bit out. “I can do it myself.”

“Aw, but you’re a guest! I insist. I’ll let you sous while I cook dinner, if you can stand, that is...” 

Illumi didn’t have the energy to protest, so he begrudgingly obliged, rising to his knees and turning to palm the smooth, white wall. No one had ever offered to do this for him; normally it was the work of a mild enema and a healthy cry.  _ But, it’s Hisoka.  _ Illumi was past embarrassment; instead, he felt warm, coddled, even loved. 

“Can I just say, you have an excellent ass. Sublime, Illumi.” Hisoka spread him gently and curled his fingers inside. _ Oh god.  _ He could feel each knuckle, each scoop. If he could’ve gotten hard again, he would’ve.  _ I must be going crazy.  _ Illumi closed his eyes, smelling something sweet.  _ Is that... _

Hisoka slid his fingers out. “All done!”

“Gross,” Illumi huffed, pressing his forehead to the wall and turning his eyes back to glance at Hisoka. “There’s no way.” 

Hisoka hummed, unlatching the shower head and using it to spray his fingers and Illumi’s ass. “You don’t have to believe me. The evidence is… well, it’s gone!” He pressed two fingertips to his lips and winked. 

“You’re crazy,” Illumi turned back around and stood up, ducking for a hug. Hisoka obliged, wetting Illumi’s hair and combing through it with tender fingers. His chest smelled like sweat, chipper cologne. A windy summer day, heat sickness, and poison all at once. 

“Mmm, Illumi, that says more about you than me, I’m afraid…” He rocked, shifting from foot to foot, raising his arm to shower them both in an artificial rainstorm. Water dripped down Illumi’s nose, gathered between his lips, in the hollow of his collarbone. Soon, they would climb out, from the shower, from each other, and resume brutal machinations. Illumi would relive pieces of the horrors he had with Killua, suppressing himself, flat in nooks, crouched in gaps, dragging another into danger. He would watch his father, his mother, his brother, cutting men down; he would force them to look at themselves in front of the world. He would die, or become a bloody-handed Prometheus in a metal box. 

Right now, though, amid the steam and hiss, Illumi’s thoughts were blank and he was only a man, swaying in the arms of another. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, folks. 30,000 words later, and we have arrived...  
> currently on the highway to hell, see y'all there  
> there's something delightfully sickening about the "blood and violence" and "self-harm" tags cozying up to the new "sex toys" tag... 
> 
> (read: thank you for reading!)
> 
> ps: hidden among these filthy, filthy lines were some actual clues to a rather important background subplot. not that i expected anyone to really scrutinize them.... :)


	11. Invocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, do I call you Master now?” Hisoka grinned like a cat with a down feather in its teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't @ me about nen i plead the fifth i don't understand science

_Illumi was eighteen, cuffed to a hospital bed, unable to move, unable to speak. He hadn’t even made it through one week of independence from the Zoldyck family. His mind and memory were trapped behind a veil; and for hours he was only a flicker of consciousness, an aching body, until a red headed nurse appeared at the edge of his cloudy vision. His heart plunged at the sight of her hair, but he could not understand why._

_“Mister Zoldyck, hi, how are you feeling?” Her voice sounded like it was coming from a fishbowl. She leaned in expectantly. “Oh, sorry, I forgot. Ah, your parents requested you be sedated and, ah,” her eyes jumped to the handcuffs, which felt like jagged fists. “Well, they’re gone, and we’re to discharge you when you can move, but before that they wanted you to read this--”_

_“Illumi,” It was a new voice; it hadn’t been there the first time. The sound of heels on tile, the smell of spun sugar, and a grinning, golden-eyed man sauntering through the door, sweeping past the nurse and--_

“Illumi, it’s time…” Illumi blinked awake, for seconds blind in white light, chest aching dully, and tears sticking to the corners of his eyes. He was not in the hospital. He was not at his apartment. There was no letter from his father, no thrumming whispers outside the door -- _he’s cracked, Silva, we pushed him too far --_ and -- _it must be your genes Kikyo; I’ve never seen a Zoldyck like this before--_ and then wailing, and then, crushing unconsciousness, like black water, like death, and now a hand on his forehead, the smell of coffee and, “I hope you’re ready for your first full day of classes, Little Mouth.” 

“Classes,” Illumi mumbled in reply. It was Hisoka. His hair was wet, curling at the swell of bare shoulders. He smelled faintly of chlorine. _An apt smell for him._ He rolled his eyes at himself. _Oh, you wake up from a nightmare and become a poet._

“Yes, classes. Don’t roll your eyes at me. Coffee?” He was holding a full French press in one hand, and a cup in the other.

“Okay.” Illumi sat up and looked around the room. Their clothes were still strewn about. 

“I couldn’t bear to clean up,” Hisoka said, with a hint of bashfulness, as he poured the coffee in a perfect arc. “That’s for later.” He handed the warm mug to Illumi and backed up to sit in the windowsill. “For now, we sit and enjoy the minutes before work begins.” 

_The work._ Hisoka had an interview with the woman he’d found online set up for Wednesday afternoon, and on Thursday, he would submit their false abstract to the department chair for approval. Illumi hoped that Hisoka could conjure his aura by Friday, and learn Zetsu over the weekend. And then, he would track down Silva and Kikyo. But before all that, he had to make good on his promise to Hisoka and act as a functioning university student. Illumi's stomach rolled. The coffee burned the tip of his tongue when he sipped it. 

  
  


“So, do I call you Master now?” Hisoka grinned like a cat with a down feather in its teeth. It was evening. They were knee-to-knee, cross-legged on the circular area rug in Hisoka’s home office. The room was spare: black, drawn windows and a wall-installed desk, bathed in soft blue light from an LED floor lamp leaning in a corner like a large, robotic arm. The light made Hisoka reptilian, in a black sleeveless mock-neck, with his Grecian bones and narrow gaze.

Illumi was nursing a buzz from the whisky he’d downed, sock-footed in Hisoka’s kitchen after his re-introduction to college life-- the only reason he tolerated Hisoka’s insistence that they have their first Nen lesson floorside. 

“For the aesthetic,” Hisoka had purred, swirling a large wine glass. “My wine is _Russian_ in honor of the Zoldycks.”

“Zoldyck is a made-up name,” Illumi had shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose at the bitter whisky sting. “And Nen has no national origin.” 

“Whatever,” Hisoka chirped, undeterred, popping one of his ubiquitous marinated olives into his mouth. “We have to sit on the floor.” He’d already been somewhat miffed to find out that Nen did not typically involve any ritual sex or summoning, nor idolatry in the traditional sense, after peppering Illumi with questions during the ride home. “And we have to take a break at eight, because there’s something on TV I want to see.”

“Yeah, okay, okay.”

“Olive?”

_"Master Zoldyck,”_ Hisoka crooned with a swiveled wrist. After the previous night, even Hisoka’s melodramatic flirting made Illumi’s cheeks hot and his throat tight. 

Illumi swallowed, pulled the cardigan he’d plucked from Hisoka’s closet a bit tighter. “No, call me Illumi. And you don’t derive Nen from a particular deity,” Illumi pressed his hands together, ignored the waves of anxiety that accompanied all mentions of his family’s trademark practice. Hisoka must have sensed discomfort because he placed a warm palm on Illumi’s knee. 

“Instead,” Illumi continued, imagining himself as still and stoic as Silva had been when he’d explained the same principles in Illumi’s boyhood. _You’ll be a little god, Illumi. If you pay attention._ “Nen focuses on the self as deity, through meditation, and self-worship.” 

“Mm.” 

Illumi straightened his spine, curled into the black of his mind. _These are just words._ “Nen does not have a chosen people either. Even though some can pick it up faster than others, technically anyone could apply the practice to a degree that would be dangerous if widely known. The Zoldycks have always understood this, which is why we pass it down orally rather than keeping a holy book. Though, luckily, it seems my family hasn’t been covering their tracks as well as they think... which means two things. First, as you know, we can interview witnesses. Second, and more importantly, the Zoldycks can be followed, and hopefully caught in the act of murder without having to expose the reality of Nen. But, in order to do so, you will need a basic knowledge of aura, both for purposes of self-defense and for, well, sneaking around.” 

“Aura, hm?” Hisoka’s eyes flashed, looking especially yellow in the blue light of his office.

“Yes, the material manifestation of Nen use is projecting and controlling one’s life energy, or, aura.” 

“Ah, like this?” Hisoka licked the middle finger of his free hand and tipped forward to press it to Illumi’s cheek. Illumi bristled. _It’s that smell again…_ He tried to twist around to look, but something was stuck to his face, keeping him still, a powerful pinch. _Hisoka’s…?_ Their eyes met, and Hisoka was laughing between his teeth. 

“What are you…?” 

“It’s my special talent,” Hisoka replied. “I showed it to you last night, in fact. My fingers are very strong, and sticky, but only if I want them to be.” 

“You’re an Intuitive…” Illumi breathed. “I can’t believe it.” His heart was racing. There were only a few known Intuitive Nen users, and if the Zoldyck family found about them, they would either train them or kill them. _This means Netero really had no idea what he was talking about._ “And you swear that you’ve never been taught Nen before? Netero never…?” 

“Please,” Hisoka replied, unsticking his finger from Illumi’s cheek and shaking his hand out, like it had hurt. “Netero and I only talked about research. He much preferred me with my mouth full.” 

Illumi shuddered, trying not to imagine what Hisoka had implied. “And the Zodiacs…?” _They must not have known either._

Hisoka’s eyes widened, as if a key had turned in his mind. “Oh… so you thought…” He grinned, going cross-eyed at his middle finger. “Wait, who were the Zodiacs to you?” 

“They’re not anything to me; I’ve never met a Zodiac. To the Zoldycks they were only a link-chain; an arm of influence more directly involved in government. They helped enforce Nen secrecy, covered up assassinations when necessary, curried favor with elected officials by providing them with… party favors.” Illumi had fractured memories of the Zodiac bust two years ago-- as far as he could tell, there had been an insistent whistle-blower, and arrests had been made for appearances only. If the Zodiacs were truly immobilized, the Zoldycks doubtlessly had found other tight-lipped, heavy-pocketed enforcers, as they had for generations. And whether by way of Zoldyck support, true innocence, or something else entirely, Netero had avoided blame, which likely made things easier for his parents. _I wonder if Hisoka knows anything about that._ A question for another time.

“I see…” Hisoka was nodding, smile faltering. “I knew about the parties. I worked at some. Though, I seemed to be a little old for most of the clientele.”

Illumi clenched his back teeth. “Yes.” He remembered how easily he had been able to lure certain types of targets when he’d first started working. “But, in any case, you never used your aura around Netero or the Zodiacs? You’re sure they had no idea?” _Surely if they’d known, we wouldn’t be here right now._

“Well you see,” Hisoka replied, wiggling his fingers. “I only use my powers on myself and on people I’m quite fond of. So never on the Zodiacs, no.”

Illumi shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “And you never thought to look into your ability? Never thought to try and become stronger or use it for something other than…” He blushed, in spite of himself, fixing his gaze on a loose fiber in the carpet. _Quite fond._

Hisoka leaned back onto the heels of his palms. “Well, the other night I used it to get something out of my garbage disposal. But no, I’ve always been like this, so I never really put any thought to it. It presented me no challenge.” 

_No challenge._ “Well it certainly will now. Even though you’re an Intuitive user, you still have almost no technical knowledge. You’ll pick it up faster, because your aura nodes are already slightly opened, and you’re able to preserve it to a certain extent, but it’ll still be hard work. Perhaps weeks of meditating--”

“Boring!” cried Hisoka, sticking out his lower lip. “I hate to meditate. And I want to start stalking your family _now."_

“Oh really?" Illumi replied, rolling his shoulders. _I guess there’s always my father’s method._ “Do you trust me?” 

Hisoka’s eyebrows quirked. “Perhaps.” 

_It’s too bad my needle is still in the pocket of my shirt._

_A lot of things are still in the pocket of that shirt… I haven’t looked at my phone since last night..._

_Oh well._ With a sharp inhale, Illumi rocked up onto his knees and released his aura in Ten. He shut his eyes and breathed to the base of his lungs, enjoying the undulating warmth of it, willingly released for the first time in years. Energy prickled over his skin like cats’ tongues, made his eyes sting and his hair float. Hisoka stared at him as if at a god, smiling mouth half open. Illumi smiled back, let his eyes crinkle as they blinked through the rushing flow, and then he knocked Hisoka to the ground, straddled his hips, and pushed his palms into Hisoka’s chest. Hisoka’s eyes rolled back and filled with tears; his mouth widened into a silent scream as Illumi’s _Ren_ poured into him, forcing open his aura flow.

Even pared back for a softer Initiation, the rush of power that accompanied Ren sent waves of pleasure through Illumi’s body. He moaned quietly, pressed his hands harder against Hisoka. As he became accustomed to the pain, Hisoka’s face relaxed, his frantic breathing leveled out. A pale pink aura seeped from his pores, wafting like incense, mingling with Illumi’s. 

Illumi had been fully opened for the first time at a fight club, before a crowd and his father’s disapproving eye, at the hands of a laughing stranger. He’d crumbled under the vicious burn of a foreign Ren, his infant aura; Silva had darkened, shaking his head, crossing his arms over his massive chest. _Not the heir._ Illumi remembered lying on the ground, full of shame as the chattering crowd trickled over him and away. It was hours, or days, before he regained the strength to stand and scramble back up Kukuroo Mountain to resume his lessons.

Hisoka, on the other hand, came to Nen splayed out and pleasure-struck, locked in Illumi’s gaze, sighing when Illumi finally pulled back his Ren. Illumi shed his memory with a shudder of envy, a phantom ache in his limbs. “You’re open now. Can you feel it?”

“Yeah,” Hisoka replied, brow pinching. “It’s… wet.” 

Hisoka was a Renaissance painting, glowing rose, red hair billowing around his head like a halo. Illumi had never seen someone respond so well to a forceful Initiation. “Can you sit up?” he asked, sitting back on his heels. 

Hisoka gritted his teeth and pushed himself up slowly, arms straining. As he relaxed into a seat, his aura settled around him, an intuitive Ten. _Amazing,_ Illumi thought. _It’s amazing he survived this long with such natural talent. Though_ , he supposed, _other Intuitives used their aura for more… useful tasks._

“God-power,” Hisoka breathed, fluttering his eyes open and straightening his legs in front of himself. “I’m… a god.” 

“Something like that,” Illumi replied. He slid backward and stood, producing a hand for Hisoka. _I should stop here, but I want to see how far I can take him._ Hisoka’s hand was slick with sweat, pulsing with aura as he threaded his fingers through Illumi’s and allowed himself to be pulled to a stand. 

“Take a neutral stance,” Illumi instructed calmly, stroking up and down Hisoka’s arms. “Take deep breaths.” He pressed a soft kiss into Hisoka’s clenched jaw. “Relax.” Slowly, Hisoka’s eyes closed, his shoulders rounded, his palms opened, and his stomach rose and fell deeply, gently. _Good._

Illumi let Hisoka stay like that for several minutes. His Ten expanded around him like wine spilled on a white tile floor, filling Illumi’s lungs with its sugary scent. Hisoka’s aura already resembled that of an experienced Nen user; Illumi supposed it was only natural for someone who had been unknowingly using it for so long. And through it all, Hisoka was smiling, even as sweat beaded on his brow and the insides of his elbows. 

“Are you comfortable?” Illumi asked.

Hisoka nodded languidly. 

Illumi looked up at the ceiling. Zeno had taught him this part, with his gruff whisper. He would never forget the instant nothing of Zetsu; the home he’d found in its controlled silence. 

“Hisoka,” The name was sweet on Illumi’s tongue; the authority was electric. “Imagine yourself at the center of the universe. Everything around you is under your control.” He reached out and spread his palm on Hisoka’s chest, felt his heartbeat. “Now, try to pull it into yourself. Consume it all, until there is nothing left.” He watched as Hisoka’s breathing became more hurried; his brow creasing in concentration. “Stay calm. Destroy everything gently, don't force.” Hisoka swallowed, muscles twitching. Illumi stepped away from him, and closed his eyes, waiting for the nothingness, Zetsu _._

It was almost sad when Hisoka’s sugar aura faded, its pulsating warmth going cold. Illumi kept his eyes shut for a minute, feeling for a prickle of energy. “Move,” he said. “Walk toward me. Don’t let me sense you.” He heard Hisoka’s untrained footsteps, but he did not anticipate the fingers around his throat until the last second. He let them close, and opened his eyes, breaking into his second smile of the evening. “Excellent.” 

And that was all Hisoka had. His aura sputtered back to life for a sweet moment, and then his knees wobbled and he fell into Illumi’s arms, circling his waist with a trembling grasp. Illumi looked down to see yellow eyes staring up at him, the evergreen reptilian grin. “That was fun, Master Zoldyck.” Hisoka said, only faintly winded. “I can’t wait for our next lesson.”

Illumi stared, wondering if he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. “You truly love to suffer.”

“Mm,” Hisoka nestled his face into Illumi’s chest, pressing his lips to Illumi’s shirt. “You understand me so well.”

Together they sank back down to the carpet. Hisoka curled into a ball with his head buried in Illumi’s lap, and Illumi plucked gently at Hisoka’s sweaty curls, twisting them over one another in his bandaged fingers. 

“I have a question.” Hisoka broke the silence, his voice muffled by Illumi’s thigh. 

“Yes?” Illumi was crafting a tiny braid behind Hisoka’s ear. 

“Does all aura have a scent?” 

Illumi confused the braiding order and the hair fell apart in his fingers. “Yes, I think so.”

“Mm.” Hisoka inhaled and exhaled dramatically, his breath sending goosebumps skittering across Illumi’s skin. “Yours smells like rain and smoke, how you always smell, but stronger. I like it.”

 _Rain and smoke._ “Yours smells like candy. Cloying, like bubblegum.” _I would never like it if it wasn’t yours._

“Bubblegum?” Hisoka flopped over onto his back like a shored fish, wiggling up until his spine curved over Illumi’s bent knee. “My dad would bring home a handful of Bungee Gum every once in a while. And I would chew it all, one by one, until my jaw ached. I was always sad when it was gone, but that didn’t stop me from finishing off the next handful as quickly as I could.” Hisoka’s stomach jumped with a silent laugh. 

“Hm,” Illumi replied, combing Hisoka’s hair back from his forehead. “I wasn’t allowed candy as a kid, so I never developed a taste for it. I think I like sweets though.” He thought of the meringue cookie, ran his thumb gossamer over Hisoka’s eyelashes, traced the line of his nose, the bow of his upper lip. 

Hisoka caught Illumi’s thumb between his teeth, pushed it from his mouth with a kiss. “I find the thought of sweets is almost always better than the actual taste. That’s why I could never stop. I was always anticipating the next one-- 

“Ah! It’s probably close to eight.” Wide-eyed and clearly recovered from the lesson, Hisoka hopped to a stand, pulling Illumi up after him. “I don’t normally watch the news, but I know it’s going to be something special tonight.” His grin stretched, devious. 

Illumi suddenly felt the grip of anxiety without a source.

\---

Hisoka did not own a television, so he pulled up a livestream of the local news on his laptop. It flickered to life on Hisoka’s coffee table at exactly eight-oh-one, and Hisoka fell to a seat on the couch next to Illumi, snaking an arm over his shoulder and rolling the ends of his hair between his fingers in anticipation. 

“Tonight’s first story is a bit of a shocker,” the red-lipsticked reporter said to the camera, eyes like dinner plates. “As many of you remember, Yorknew News at Eight was the first to break the story two years ago of suspected drug and human trafficking among the elusive organization known as the Zodiac Network. Now, it seems there may be more to the story. At six o’clock this morning, the Yorknew Police arrested famed anthropologist and public intellectual Isaac Netero at his apartment on the Upper East Side on unknown charges. Though we cannot confirm why Netero was arrested this morning, he was associated with the Zodiac Network, the members of which will stand trial in the coming months.”

Glee rose like floodwater in Hisoka’s throat as a video of Netero being led down the steps of a brownstone by two stoic police officers flashed on the screen. Illumi sucked his cheeks in silently, seemingly at the edge of a smile. 

The reporter went on to recount the story of the Zodiacs, who, in her version of events, threw lavish parties for only their own amusement. A few aging congressmen had taken the fall with them, of course, as necessary sacrifices, but the government had remained largely un-implicated in the scandal. Hisoka’s eyes jumped to Illumi’s expressionless face, watched his eyes as they flicked over the list of crimes scrolling across the bottom of the screen. The story ended with a fierce blue-eyed stare, and a call for the viewers to write in their opinions on Netero’s arrest. _Of course they wouldn’t play the evidence I turned in, but this is enough._

“You did this?” Illumi asked, shutting the laptop as the news moved on to a segment on some kind of insect infestation in East Gorteau. In his muted way, he had the look of a child at the end of a roller-coaster ride.

“Perhaps,” Hisoka purred. “I may have handed quite an incriminating thumb drive to quite an unscrupulous contact associated with the YNPD.” 

Hisoka only knew him as ‘Ging.’ A police consultant of mysterious repute, Ging hovered around YNPD headquarters, smoking, sweating, barely working, but somehow had a finger stuck in every pie of law enforcement. He was also an ex-Zodiac, Hisoka knew, who had left the organization due to ‘irreconcilable differences’ shortly after Hisoka became acquainted with Pariston.

_Ging never fails me._

“Yeah, Morow, I’ll get it to the people who need to see it.”

... “No, they won’t ask questions. They’ve been wanting to nab Netero ever since we took the rest of the Zodiacs down two years ago.” 

… “Oh just make sure they don’t see you on your way out.”

… “Also, I’ve been meaning to tell you, your old buddy got out on good behavior… yeah, he basically charmed every fucking guard in the prison. Or maybe fucked every charming one. Not sure. Not that you’d be surprised by that.” 

… “Yeah, just keep an eye out. Heard prison really changed him. Or awakened him; I don’t know.” 

_Though that last part was a little unnecessary. Of course I knew Chrollo got out._

  
  


“Why did you do it?” Illumi asked. Hisoka suddenly did not know if he was looking at amusement or worry.

“No real reason,” Hisoka admitted, honestly. “You clearly don’t like him, and I don’t like the sound of his voice. He was getting on my nerves.” 

Illumi turned his head, in his birdlike way. “Do you think he saw it coming?” 

“He would’ve, if he’d ever bothered to really look at me.” Illumi picked at a bandage. Hisoka took his hands. “Take it as a pledge of my loyalty.” 

“Hm,” said Illumi, pulling his knees up and settling closer into Hisoka’s side. 

Hisoka absentmindedly reached for his aura, let it lick up and down his palms. He snaked his hand under Illumi’s shirt, found the crook of his side, stuck and unstuck his hand until Illumi couldn’t hold back laughter. 

Then, three strident knocks echoed through Hisoka’s apartment and a chill blew through his chest. “Illumi…” Hisoka said slowly, for a moment considering the masking technique Illumi had taught him. _No. If he’s knocking, he already knows I’m here._ “Why don’t you go to the bedroom?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whO cOULd it bE ?? sorry for the cliffhanger i just had to. 
> 
> this chapter gave me huge amounts of grief for no good reason. it's hard to follow the "smut chapter" ha-ha
> 
> also, thank you so much for 100+ kudos. i've never written anything that anyone (besides my long-suffering family and closest friends) has read, but i'm glad i decided to ~take a risk~ because working on this story is legitimately bringing me so much joy lol 
> 
> & of course, comments keep me going. unless you have something smart to say about how nen "actually" works. then, i don't wanna hear it. (jk).
> 
> finally: my twitter is @antkidu please feel free to hmu i crave attention.


	12. Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps beauty was always empty, made to be used, filled with poison.

“And the other shoe just dropped,” mumbled Chrollo, from his regular window-seat at Houdini Bakery East, which was conveniently located directly across from Isaac Netero’s brownstone. He couldn’t see Netero’s face as he was led down the stairs in cuffs, but Chrollo could imagine the whites of his eyes showing under his heavy brow. “So much for the protection of Saherta’s favorite crime family.”

Chrollo closed his book, left three-hundred jenny on the table, and slipped out the door. 

_ I should have known better,  _ he thought, clicking down the street. _ If you want something done properly, you have to do it yourself.  _ Of course, no one, not even the whelp’s own family could have predicted how pathetic, how absolutely doe-eyed their little prodigal would be. Wailing in the alleyway, tearing at himself, and then, days later, declaring his trust for a silver-tongued liar.  _ Idiot.  _

Perhaps beauty was always empty, made to be used, filled with poison. 

_ I wonder how Hisoka’s face looked when he saw our drug in that boy’s hand.  _

Chrollo had loved Hisoka, or believed he had. 

His phone buzzed from the pocket of his jeans.  _ Silva Zoldyck. Great. Just what I need. _

\---

  
  


There was no one, nothing, at the door, just the waft of a heavy fragrance, like incense.  _ Am I going crazy?  _ Hisoka craned his head down the hall. The triple knock was Chrollo’s --a joke he liked: father, son, and holy spirit-- but Chrollo was nowhere to be found. 

“Hisoka.” Illumi’s voice. Hisoka whirled around to see him, a round-based needle in his palm, the point sticking out between his first and second finger. 

“There’s no one here,” Hisoka said, but the moment he spoke, something heavy and menacing settled over his shoulders, filled his mouth and lungs, clouded his vision. Pure misery, like nothing he’d ever felt, engulfed his senses. The hallway before him blackened, emptied: he saw Illumi full of bullet holes, his mother, blue-lipped in the bathtub, his father, slumped in the passenger seat of his running car. He staggered forward and clawed at his throat, which was burning, expanding, as if he’d closed his lips around a tea kettle. “Illumi,” he tried to gasp, but his voice made no sound. 

Then, strong hands closed around his shoulders and steered him blind, dropped him onto something soft. “God-power, Hisoka!” Illumi’s disembodied whisper. Hisoka scrambled around inside himself, searching for the pulsing core of aura, but all his mind found was more wet fear-- his organs spilling out, his limbs rotting, bleeding over white bed sheets.  _ I can’t!  _ He tried to scream. 

There was a ripping sound, and then pain shot through Hisoka’s body, from the soles of his feet to his fingertips. A voice finally escaped his lips -- burning like a scream, whining like flies in his ears. And then he was blinking into wet fabric, his living room couch; tears and saliva dripped from his face as he pushed himself to a seat. He turned around at once to see that his door was ajar; Illumi was nowhere to be found. Hisoka tried to stand, but his legs were stiff and still as boards, and when he tried to move them, they tingled as if they’d been wedged under a heavy object. 

“Well, shit,” Hisoka whispered to himself, resigning to his place on the couch. He felt a headache begin to punch its way into his forehead; the images from before were still replaying in his mind. They were things which did not normally overwhelm him to recall-- witnessing death, which was part of his daily life for the better part of fifteen years; his parents’ suicides, which he’d found out about in a news story, months after they’d occurred; his own injury, which, in the right circumstances could be downright tantalizing -- but he’d been sick with fear, beside himself with rage and sadness. He suddenly felt the urge to pick at his cuticles the way Illumi did, somehow believing that the pinpricks of pain would give him some relief, distraction. But instead, he wrenched himself forward and opened his laptop. 

There was only one other time in Hisoka’s life that he could remember feeling so out of control.  _ Eternal Return,  _ he mumbled to himself.  _ Nearly seven years ago, now. _ But that had been different. Rather than hell, he’d felt indescribable euphoria; even if someone had ripped him apart, he would’ve burst into golden light. Sex was weightless, pure feeling, and when he’d climaxed, he swore that God himself cupped his soul. He’d come down from the high on his knees with his hands stretched to heaven, staring up at Chrollo’s tear-streaked face. Sobriety had been like a second birth; all of his bad memories softened, the good amplified.  _ That could erase the pain I’m in now.  _

But his internet search came up dry, as it did every time he searched. There was endless prattling about the Phantoms-- sighting records, support groups for victims, a blog belonging to a teenage girl called Neon who had sent at least fifty letters to Chrollo in prison-- but no one, not even on the seediest forums, had written a word about Eternal Return. 

_ Alright, well what about the hell I just experienced?  _

Before he could look, Illumi blew through the open door, slammed it behind him. Hisoka scanned Illumi from head to toe as he glided down the hall toward the couch. He was still gripping the needle he’d had when he left; his lip was split and bright red in the corner; his hair was bristled with static. He was devoid of bullet holes, though Hisoka’s mind kept conjuring them, deep and oozing, across his neck and chest; each imaginary flicker sent waves of chills down Hisoka’s spine. The first words out of Illumi’s mouth were, “I’m sorry,” and then he was kneeling in front of the couch, smelling of aura. Hisoka couldn’t speak. 

With a flick of Illumi’s wrist, Hisoka could move his legs again, and another, longer, thinner needle materialized between Illumi’s index finger and thumb. 

“What was that?” Hisoka reached down to pull at his toes. His calf muscles screamed.

“Melas Oneiros. My mother’s  _ Hatsu _ ,” Illumi replied. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “The fear will go away after you sleep. I was trying to put you to sleep with this, but I didn’t have time.” He brandished the long needle before it disappeared into purple vapor. 

“You shouldn’t apologize; this was part of the conditions you set. But why was your mother here?” 

Illumi rubbed his temples, swiped at the blood on his lip. “I don’t know. None of this makes sense.” 

_ He did say his family was dangerous. I shouldn’t have assumed it was Chrollo.  _ “Do you think your parents know about our little project?” 

“Wait,” said Illumi, prickling like a startled deer. “Why did you ask me to go to the bedroom when we heard the knocking?” 

_ Shit.  _ “I thought I recognized the knock…” 

Illumi crossed his arms over his chest, blew a stray hair out of his eyes. “Hisoka… Are you seeing someone?” 

Laughter bubbled from Hisoka’s chest, escaping manic, high-pitched, and for a second he forgot his nervous visions in Illumi’s jilted pout. “What?” he said. “No, of course not.” Hisoka reached down and stuck his finger to Illumi’s nose, making Illumi’s lip twitch. “I…” He pressed his lips together. “I thought it was my ex, the one you drew for me. Chrollo. I asked you to leave because I was afraid of what he would say to you, about me.” 

Illumi relaxed, looking at once relieved and puzzled. A question waited between his parted lips, but he didn’t ask. Instead, he stood up. “I need to make a call.” 

“Okay,” Hisoka replied. His hands balled into fists. As he stood, Illumi flashed gray before him, his lips glossy with blood.  _ Fuck.  _ Hisoka cringed at the wave of terror, reached out to wrap his arms around Illumi’s waist, stopping him in his tracks. “Hold me for a second,” he winced against Illumi’s tensing stomach. His mind was still cycling through endless lurid flashes, though now they were only of Illumi: screaming, bloody, twisted this way and that. 

“Oh.” Illumi rubbed his palms over Hisoka’s scalp and sunk back down until they were eye-to-eye. “Don’t worry,” he said, looking around the room. “The feelings are all conjured versions of Kikyo’s paranoia. And it probably affected you especially strongly because you didn’t summon your Ten. Well, I tried to tell you to-- nevermind. She used to use it on me when I was little, but she stopped after she was injured during a job. My father said she lost the ability entirely, but I guess she got it back somehow. Though, I didn’t see her in the hallway, and it didn’t smell like her aura. Something hit me though-- I have to call my brother, my youngest brother I mean, his name is Kalluto… I’m not sure if I can trust him, but I definitely can’t trust the other ones, well, I could probably...” He babbled on and on, rubbing circles on Hisoka’s shoulder blades. 

Illumi’s eyes went wider and wider as he spoke, his chest bumping with heartbeat. A smile wobbled onto Hisoka’s face, despite the fact that his eyes were stinging, near-tears. “Illumi,” he said, finally, when Illumi began naming all the Zoldyck family butlers. “Can you put me to sleep, do you think?” 

Illumi blanched, and then the darkest blush Hisoka had ever seen bloomed over his cheeks. “Yes. I--”

Hisoka kissed him, hand firm at the back of his head. “Carry me to bed?” he asked, a string of saliva following him as he pulled away, forcing the longest smile he could muster. 

“Yes.” Illumi was still red as a bride. 

Illumi strained under Hisoka’s weight, being both slighter and shorter, but in moments, Hisoka was sitting comfortably, bridal-style, in Illumi’s arms, elbows hooked around Illumi’s neck, as Illumi glided down the hall. When they reached the bedroom, Illumi laid Hisoka down gently, hovering over him like a mother before conjuring the long needle between his fingers. “You may feel a pinch,” he said. “I never used this one much, so I’m not so good with it… I’ll try to send you some good thoughts with it...” 

“Kiss me,” Hisoka mumbled, swallowing the nausea that accompanied each horrid thought. If he’d been alone, he would be screaming; emotion was an assailant to him, more rough and violent than any touch or hurt. 

_ Ah.  _ A sliding pinch like a bee sting, the soft of Illumi’s lips against his, and then a burst of blackness. The last thing Hisoka heard before he passed out was Illumi, in his memory, desperately rasping, “You saw me.” 

  
  


\---

When Hisoka went limp over the needle, Illumi finally let go the muscles he’d been forcing still. He trembled as if under a cold shower, dropping to his knees and slipping his phone from beneath the heap of his clothes piled on Hisoka’s floor, hugging himself. He’d been caught in the crossfire of Melas Oneiros too, chasing after its source in the hallway. The nightmare Hatsu had never been able to penetrate Illumi’s mind the way Kikyo had wanted it to in his youth-- the visions were lurid, hideous and pitiful, but she did not understand that he’d been born sick with fear, perhaps something inherited, long-forgotten. Now, with a push of Ren, he could keep the visions away, quiet them until they were indistinguishable from the racket he always had in his mind. Even so, it had been enough to unsteady his grip, set his teeth chattering. 

_ I should sleep soon, too…  _ he found himself glancing absently back at Hisoka’s limp form under the blankets. Kikyo’s Hatsu had suffocated the defenseless Hisoka, who’d looked so wrecked by terror that Illumi had barely known what to do with him. Fear was odd on Hisoka’s face; like warmth in a doll’s eyes, it was not meant to be there. He’d felt a sympathy he never had for the professor, which had exploded in babble from his lips. But because of Melas Oneiros, he knew for sure now that he’d been right to assume that Hisoka had never witnessed a Zoldyck assassination-- couldn’t have, without Zetsu. A seasoned Nen user would have felt Melas Oneiros coming, and Illumi had seen Hisoka crumble under its malice, without stopping to consider deception. 

_ Netero was lying; I knew that. _

_ But there is still something I’m missing.  _

_ What do I know?  _

One more thing was eating at Illumi’s mind, even as he’d torn through the halls of Hisoka’s apartment complex in pursuit of an invisible foe.  _ He was getting on my nerves,  _ Hisoka had said of Netero, his benefactor, after thoughtlessly selling him out. Illumi did not mourn for the old man, did not care for his comfort, but he wondered if he was any different in Hisoka’s eyes. If he would be, in the difficult weeks to come. What had Chrollo called it?  _ Temporary ensnarement.  _

Churning with a new misery, Illumi nearly dropped his phone.  _ Call Kalluto _ , he told himself.  _ Talk to Hisoka later. _ Somehow, the iPhone was clinging to the last of its battery, having been bombarded with unseen notifications for hours. He glanced back up at Hisoka.  _ In any case, the needle won’t come out for another eight hours. He won’t wake up even if this call goes really sour.  _

Steadying himself best he could, Illumi called Kalluto, from whom he’d only received a single text, an ellipsis. 

Of all the Zoldyck siblings, Kalluto had embraced his training the most readily, like a starving dog would pull the meat from a drumstick. If Silva was busy, and a client needed someone hideously killed, dismembered, disemboweled, they called Kalluto. Though, inhuman as it was, Illumi had to admit that there was something refreshing about Kalluto’s cruelty. He could always count on Kalluto for a wry smile in the face of death.  _ Like someone else I know.  _

The phone rang twice. 

“Yeah?” Kalluto’s voice was flat, like he’d been taught, but still high with youth.

“Hey, Kalluto. What’s… what’s up?” Illumi suddenly realized he didn’t have a concrete plan. He had no idea what Kalluto knew; he’d half-expected to be ignored.  _ Just act casual. You’re just calling your brother. Your… murderous little brother.  _

“I’m folding Origami,” Kalluto replied, nonplussed, as if the call was under absolutely ordinary circumstances. “Working on my Ten. What’s up with you?”

_ So he learned.  _ “I am…”  _ What would a normal reason be, for me to call? Why would I call a family member? Pre-Hisoka…  _ “I’m just wondering if Killua made it home alright.” He cringed at his lie.

“Killua?” The sound of crinkling paper.

“Yeah, did Netero ever make it back with him?”

Kalluto’s voice deflated. “Uh… I haven’t seen him since he lost his phone. Want me to ask Mom?” 

_ Ask Mom?  _ “No, that’s okay… how  _ is _ Mom?”

“I think she’s mad at Dad. They’re both working on a big job right now, but I don’t think it’s going well.”

“Ah, really?” This was unusual. Zoldyck jobs were ordinarily one-and-done. 

“Yeah. Also, I’m not supposed to talk to you.” 

“Kalluto?” Silva’s voice, stern in the background. “Who are you talking to?”

“Illu,” Kalluto replied, still emotionless. 

There was some shuffling, a boyish cry; the call dropped. Guilt and confusion swirled in Illumi’s stomach. Kalluto had disobeyed Silva’s orders, perhaps crucially. His mother was at Kukuroo Mountain. His father was not away on a job, as Milluki had said. Everything is normal for Kalluto. _They must not have told him anything. Would his voice have sounded any different if he had known?_ Illumi didn’t know Kalluto like he knew Killua. He sighed, and walked to the windowsill, leaning into it like Hisoka always did. Across from him, Hisoka’s breath was slow with sleep. 

Illumi chewed on the inside of his lip. Kalluto was probably being beaten right now. Zeno wouldn’t stop it; he never did.  _ It wasn’t for nothing, brother.  _ Illumi followed the rise and fall of Hisoka’s chest with his eyes.  _ My mother did not produce the Melas Oneiros. And Killua… Netero never took him back.  _

Panic was rising again.  _ I can’t beat the Zoldycks at their own game.  _

He focused on the shock of auburn hair curling from beneath white blankets.  _ What would he say?  _

_ But Netero’s gone.  _ He exhaled.

He inhaled.

_ Netero’s gone, but Hisoka has no loyalty. And Melas Oneiros was here, without a source. Did my family send it? Was it some kind of warning?  _ Illumi’s mind was spinning, capsizing at the edge of something.  _ Think, Illumi. What happens when Hisoka gets hit with the nightmare? Who benefits? What happens when--  _ fear.  __

_ Hisoka was scared. Hisoka hasn’t been scared a single time in the past week, even when I told him he could die. Even when I used my Nen on him.  _

_Hisoka’s only loyalty is to himself. Fear is… fear is inconvenient._ “He was getting on my nerves.” Illumi wanted to scream. 

_ He’ll betray me. Whoever used Melas Oneiros on Hisoka wants him to betray me.  _

_ Oh god.  _ Illumi’s panic was silent, a frozen silhouette against the gauze curtains. 

Auburn hair.  _ No, he won’t. Don’t be an idiot, Illumi. Netero, the Zoldycks, they’ve been pitting you against Hisoka from the beginning. You have to keep him. Stick to the plan. _

_ Focus.  _ He felt for his needle, which he’d slid into his pocket, closed his palm around its hard base. In front of him, Hisoka’s bedroom, lamplit, covered in their clothes. The ensuite bathroom was dark, but there was still water on the floor from the shower he took when he got home. Behind him, the window opened to Dayroad Park. Down the hall, from the balcony, Illumi would be able to see Hisoka’s favorite spot.

And Hisoka. A small smile had crept onto his face; not the snakelike grin he always wore, but a flower-petal curve. For now, the threat, whatever it was, was gone.

As Illumi stripped, climbed between the sheets next to peaceful Hisoka, a memory scratched at the back of mind, begging to be let out-- something he’d been told once, something he’d read. It was the feeling he’d had that day at the library, when he’d first discovered his parents’ name at the back of “Modern Magicks,” the fear which had driven him to The Cemetery and into Hisoka’s snare-- familiar and foreign. He rolled onto his side, scooting closer and threading his fingers through Hisoka’s.  _ There is a manufactured peace between us, like a trap. If it hadn’t been for my Nen, he’d be a terrified, roiling mess right now.  _

_ Hisoka. Netero. The Zodiacs. And whatever piece is missing. _

_ Perhaps I should manufacture some chaos, instead.  _ His needle glinted on the nightstand; its brethren rusted beneath a water-damaged floorboard under his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> needle boy returns. or does he?
> 
> WHEW okay, i was about to post this chapter at, like, 11am, but then i panicked and edited it way down. i hope it all makes sense lmao... we've picked up a few lovely tags as well... OTL
> 
> on kikyo's nen ability: i figured this would be an appropriate power for her, our paranoid queen. in greek myth "melas oneiros" (another name for epiales) is the personification/demon of nightmares. fun! ;D 
> 
> thanks for reading! :) i have projected 16 chapters for this, but my plans keep going awry, and i like to keep the chapters around 3k-4k words. so it may go on a bit longer. maybe 20? we'll see.
> 
> as always, comments are the fuel to my fire & feel free to follow/dm/chat with me on twitter (@antkidu) !!!!


	13. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He would show up crisp, let Chrollo think he was kneading at him like dough."

Illumi closed his eyes.  _ Something is wrong.  _ He wasn’t tired. He’d left the lights on. He unhooked his hand from Hisoka’s, climbed back out of bed, tiptoed, shivering, to the front of the room. Just before flipping the switch, Illumi realized that, in his haste to quiet the Hatsu curdling Hisoka’s thoughts, to organize his own paranoia, he’d put Hisoka to bed fully clothed. It was funny, now, to see him passed out in business casual; his hair still mostly gelled back. Illumi sighed, and returned to the bedside, pulling the blankets back and looking Hisoka up and down once: mock neck, gray slacks, the same tourmaline earrings he’d worn at The Cemetery. 

_ He won’t mind.  _ Illumi started with the earrings, setting them gently on the metal tray in the center of Hisoka’s beside table. With a hand under his back, Illumi lifted Hisoka to a lolling seat and peeled off the mock neck like a glove, revealing the dust of blond freckles scattered across his chest. The slacks were next. Illumi took a moment to admire the muscled swell at Hisoka’s hips, the swoop of adductors, before unceremoniously wrestling his pants off, shucking his socks in the process. 

_ This could be the last time I see him for a while,  _ Illumi thought, momentarily returning to the floating fragments of plans in his mind. He nibbled his lip and padded to the bathroom, remembering how Hisoka had helped him change the bandages on his fingers, patted antibiotic ointment onto his angry nailbeds, kissed his knuckles-- last night, this morning, when he’d returned from class, as if the professor expected it to become habit. As if Illumi was going to keep falling asleep and waking up in his bed day after day. Sighing again, Illumi slid the bottle of lavender moisturizer from the sink and sidled back to kneel next to Hisoka, to rub the lotion in lazy circles over his decolletage, stomach, arms, and thighs.  _ You won’t abandon me, will you? At least, not yet?  _ With a rush of muddy melancholy, Illumi kissed Hisoka’s temples, the tip of his nose, laid his head on his chest, rising and falling like a tide.  _ I could sleep here,  _ he thought, feeling for his aura.  _ He wouldn’t notice.  _

But with a deep breath, Illumi stood up and immediately stepped against something hard on the floor.  _ Oh.  _ It was Hisoka’s phone, which had slipped from the pocket of his slacks when Illumi had discarded them. A wave of curiosity rushed through him, and Illumi bent to pick it up, turning it over in his palm. The lock screen was hot pink, with pale yellow stars in the corner; Hisoka’s only notifications were assignment submissions from Blackboard.  _ But still, I could at least... _ The phone was a newer model than Illumi’s; one that required a fingerprint to unlock. Pricks of guilt danced like drumming fingernails over his chest as Illumi pressed Hisoka’s thumb to the home button. He stared at the home screen for a while, taunted by forty-six unread text messages.  _ Will he notice a forty-seventh?  _

_ Wait. Maybe it’s not wise to call him from my phone.  _ He had left it on the floor of an academic building for an unknown amount of time.  _ I’ll figure something out. _

When Illumi finally laid down, the room still glowed with city lights, so that Illumi could see Hisoka’s silhouette, the shadows of furniture, Hisoka’s red armchair, their clothes.  _ Five hours of sleep should be enough. I don’t want to run the risk of accidentally waking up at the same time Hisoka’s needle wears off.  _ Illumi hadn’t relied so much on Nen since enrolling at Yorknew, but then, he hadn’t ever had reason to believe that he was being targeted by a scheme more complex than his parents’ sick tricks. With a hiss, Illumi conjured a second needle and pushed it into his temple. It burned as it went, and perhaps as an exhausted self-comfort, his mind whispered  _ Hisoka, _ just loud enough to leak into his dreams. 

When he woke up, Illumi’s hands were steady and his thighs were slick; in the pitch-dark of the witching hour, his mind was bleary with dream residue: Hisoka, sunlit, candlelit, stripped, splayed. His heart fluttered as he slid from the bed.  _ If I don’t hurry, I’ll end up staying here forever.  _ His bare feet hit the cold wood floors, and he set his mind to gathering up the belongings he had scattered around Hisoka’s bedroom.  _ Needle. Shirt, shorts, socks.  _ The corduroy smelled better than he’d expected; the spandex smelled worse. 

Illumi folded the slacks, t-shirt, and cardigan he’d borrowed and left them in a stack at the end of Hisoka’s bed.  _ Bag.  _ Clean, drying in the laundry room down the hall.  _ Shoes.  _ Shined, in front of the door. Before he left, Illumi turned and looked back at Hisoka’s living room. The lights were still on. Their dinner plates were still sitting on the bar in front of half-full water glasses. Illumi’s heart ached as he locked the door behind him and started down the hall. 

Leaving Hisoka’s apartment reminded Illumi of his past life’s least favorite task: house calls. He hated the remnants of lives unfinished: open books, sinks full of dishes, wet laundry. Zoldycks never left families half formed; Illumi had killed children, babies. He squeezed his eyes shut in the elevator. He’d dreamt again of driving away with Hisoka, leaving his memories behind. But the pull for revenge was stronger. 

  
  


For the next three days, Illumi swallowed half-doses of clonazepam, took the bus to campus, went to his classes, completed his work, cared for his healing nails-- everything he’d promised. But he did it all alone. On Wednesday morning, his Art of Holy Devotion professor handed him a manila folder. Her mouth said, “From Professor Morow;” her eyes said,  _ you fool.  _

“Thanks,” Illumi mumbled, hiding the folder in his textbook. The professor started to add something else, but he walked away as she began talking. He opened it in a bathroom stall. Inside were three laminated hotel slips, nearly identical to the one he’d found in  _ Azian Witchcraft _ . 

On Thursday afternoon, he saw Hisoka in the hallway, glared at him, and nearly lost the will to act when he saw what looked like genuine triumph on the professor’s face.  _ Bastard,  _ he thought, hurrying down the stairs.  _ I hope he deleted the fucking voicemail.  _

He passed a window, which shot back his distorted reflection, spectral, in a long, black cardigan, pointed patent leather boots. His hair was down, glossy from a treatment (aptly called The Rebound) he’d gotten at a salon downtown. Silver dagger earrings dangled to his shoulders.  _ Maybe I overdid it.  _

But sure enough, as he walked to the bus stop he saw Chrollo, cross-legged on the bench under the willows, nose in a book. They raised eyebrows at each other as Illumi passed and soon the tap of Chrollo’s footsteps were following behind him. 

“Zoldyck.”

Illumi twisted as he walked, meeting Chrollo’s gray stare with the corner of his. 

“How are you and the good Professor?” 

“Fine,” Illumi replied, crossing his arms. The bus stop was only a few minutes ahead. 

“Aren’t you hot in that?” Chrollo quipped. 

_ So he did notice.  _ “No.” 

“Alright,” Chrollo waved limply. “Well, I’ll see you around, beautiful.”

Illumi bristled, but kept walking. 

“I admire your loyalty!” Chrollo called.

Illumi saw Chrollo again on Friday, this time at the library cafe where he’d had lunch with Hisoka. He’d worn all black for the third day in a row, this time in the form of a t-shirt dress layered over a turtleneck and hi-top sneakers. Caught in the suspicious gaze of the freshman barista, Illumi was chewing on an unlit cigarette, sipping a cappuccino, and pretending to read an article on queer Kakin mysticism. But mostly, he was suppressing laughter at the audio recording of Hisoka’s interview with the forum conspiracy theorist, Palmxstry. “So, tell me about the individual you’ve dubbed the Needle Murderer--” Hisoka purred, sounding a little too self-satisfied. “Why do you feel the murders had something to do with the occult?”

The woman hemmed and hawed over her answer for a moment. “Well…” her voice was deep and sonorous; it reminded Illumi of Kikyo’s. “I think the placement of the punctures, they often make a sort of… pentagrams around the bodies of the victims...” Perhaps it was listening to someone describe his own work in such a strange and meticulous way, perhaps it was Hisoka’s theatrical mm-hmms, and ahhhs, but something pricked Illumi’s paranoia. 

He picked his head up and found himself looking directly at Chrollo, who, in turn, was tucked into a booth across from a tiny girl with a grown-out pink mullet. They were engrossed in conversation over a book lying open between them, Chrollo jabbing a black-painted finger into the table and hissing between clenched teeth, the girl twirling the drawstring on her blue hoodie and nodding. Then, all of a sudden, they both burst out laughing, and Chrollo’s face was brilliantly red.

Illumi frowned, shifted his weight, pulled the pulverized cigarette out of his mouth and laid it on the table, pressed play on the recording. The woman’s uncertain tone echoed in his ears once again. “I believe the killer was definitely a woman, likely a sex-worker, someone who believes in the justice, the sacredness of the killings. I’ve been to the crime scenes, and there’s always a certain… energy about them.” Illumi’s brows knit involuntarily. 

“An energy, you say?” Illumi could practically see the manic glow in Hisoka’s eyes, could imagine him pressing the point of his pen to his tongue, writing large, loopy notes. Chrollo and the girl were still cutting up in their booth. Illumi looked up for a split second, and his eyes caught the gray of Chrollo’s gaze.  _ Shit.  _

“Yes, some kind of residual warmth, I would say.” 

A long hum from Hisoka that made Illumi’s stomach squirm, the scribble of a pen. “Let’s go back to the beginning-- how did you discover the Needle Murderer?” 

Chrollo was waving. Illumi pretended not to see, clicked the volume on his phone up a few notches and pushed his left earbud further into his ear. 

“Well I’ve always been a true crime junkie, so I record the evening news on multiple stations... And I started noticing these murders of mobsters which would get, like, five minutes of attention and then never be mentioned again. And they were all over the V6-- not just in Saherta. I became consumed by them--

“Hey, Zoldyck!” Chrollo’s voice, muffled.

Another rash of laughter.

\-- I really see the Needle Murderer as a hero, you see-- “Zoldyck!” 

Illumi finally paused the recording and looked up. The barista had left her station to tell Chrollo and his friend to quiet down, and Chrollo was nodding feverishly as his friend, consumed by giggles, buried her blush-stained face in a folded elbow.  _ Are they okay?  _

Seeing that Illumi had taken notice, Chrollo stood, beckoning for the girl to follow suit. They met, standing, next to Illumi’s round table, Illumi leaning against it with crossed arms, one earbud dangling over his chest. He said nothing, only raised his chin expectantly. 

“Hey Zoldyck,” Chrollo said, for the third time, staring up at Illumi with murky, fishbowl eyes. His stance was wobbly.  _ Amphetamines, maybe?  _ He clapped a hand around the girl’s shoulder, and she stepped off balance, falling into his side.  _ Couldn’t be. Their skin is too nice. _ “This is Machi, my… girlfriend.” She straightened up and he bubbled with laughter as he said it. “No, just kidding, she’s not.” A smirk. A tremulous, false seriousness that made the hairs on the back of Illumi’s neck stand up. 

“Hi,” Illumi said to Machi, stiffly. 

Machi’s eyebrows jumped. “You’re right. He is quite glamorous up close.” 

_ Glamorous.  _ Illumi sniffed, pushing his fists into his elbows. 

“Yes,” Chrollo nodded, reaching into his pocket. “Anyway, Zoldyck.” He clicked the kay, like Hisoka did. “You look like you need a pick-me-up. What with that anguished look?” He craned his neck over to the article on Illumi’s table. “Queer mysticism got you down?” 

“Maybe,” Illumi replied. “And yes.” 

Chrollo grinned. “Perfect. Machi and I are trying out a new product at the moment. Quarter-doses of course. But,” he paused, raising the index finger of his free hand, and wrestling two key-cards from his pocket with the other. “We did recently acquire these.” He fanned the keycards out in front of Illumi’s face. 

_ The Cemetery.  _ “Ah,” Illumi replied, with a ripple of triumph. 

“Care to join us tonight? You can help us test…” 

“Alright,” Illumi nodded. “I’ll be there.” 

“Don’t bring Hisoka,” Machi added, an edge to her tone. “We don’t like him.” 

“Okay, I won’t.” 

_ Easy,  _ Illumi thought, as Chrollo and Machi swayed from the library, arm-in-arm.  _ Too easy?  _ He snaked a hand into his bag, which was hooked around the back of his chair, and felt the metallic cold of his needle case. Palmxstry’s voice wafted back into his ears, quelling his nerves. His hair slipped over his shoulder like water as he leaned over the article, hand cupping his forehead. His coffee was cold.  _ I guess I’ll find out.  _

Night fell faster than Illumi expected. Finishing the rest of Hisoka’s interview and his cold cappuccino, he escaped stares in the cafe by way of a plumed couch on the first floor, and finally at a claw-footed table on the third to pen a research paper draft. Before he knew it, the library had hollowed, spilled into a violet evening; the clearest, lightest one of the season. Students were scattered across the quads as he passed, lounging in Adirondack chairs, sipping suspiciously from brown paper bags. Languid eyes followed his strides, and he remembered his last Cemetery-bound walk from the library, after which he’d hunched in the back of a taxi, flicking through the same eight Instagram updates. He’d goaled to ruin. Now, he held his chin up, looked directly down the cobbled path ahead of him, between tree branches and dusky sunset clouds. 

Illumi painted eyeliner in a thin stripe across his eyelids, a dot below his lower lids, and instead of Kikyo’s voice in his head it was Hisoka’s.  _ Beautiful.  _ And then, oddly out-of-place, Chrollo’s, Machi’s,  _ glamorous.  _

He threaded a wand of gel through his eyebrows and gave himself a coy look, bending forward and parting his lips for the mirror.  _ Glamour, like witches have.  _ He’d been reading the word on-and-off all day throughout his homework.  _ Now that I’ve done it, Chrollo better not do anything to smudge my eyeliner.  _

Hopping off his sink, Illumi eyed the altoid tin of cocaine sitting unsealed among his jars of makeup brushes and half-used compacts. He narrowed his eyes, chewed his lip and swiveled, making his way to the dryer.  _ Not tonight.  _ He would show up crisp, let Chrollo think he was kneading at him like dough.

The elevator to The Cemetery was brighter, and moved more sluggishly than Illumi remembered. Though, it was his first time to see it sober.  _ And there’s a mirrored ceiling?  _ He looked up at himself.  _ I’m still overdoing it, _ he thought, with a private smirk as he fluttered through the doors, thumped down the hall. Illumi was lines and corners, black from head-to-toe, in a racerback crop-top, shorts puckering slightly underneath a snug, waist-thigh harness. His needles clinked like bells inside a structured pouch secured between his shoulder blades.  _ Should I have put my hair up?  _ He thought, looking down at himself from the reflection in his mind. In his makeup, his eyes had looked especially dollish, his mouth especially small.  _ What do I look like to Hisoka?  _ He wondered. Bass rumbled faintly through the walls, keeping time with his beating heart. 

He’d taken his time getting here. Chrollo would be waiting for him, perhaps high-collared, perhaps with his lips around a straw. Illumi would stifle a sigh at the sight of him, squeeze his shoulders together with just the right amount of stiffness. It was this in-between, not quite assassin, not quite man, that Illumi had always thrived in. Kikyo had made sure of it, spreading his mind open and whispering into it. 

_ Your body is your greatest weapon.  _ Not just hips, ass, but face, lips, the tilt of jaw. 

He pressed piano-fingers to his chest as he pushed through the door. Dull pain. Hisoka’s voice:  _ beautiful.  _ And he had his needles, if he needed them. 

\---

Hisoka’s dreams conjured a ballroom glowing golden, pearl-pale tuxedos pooling the light in their folds. Illumi, poised against him in closed position, balanced gloved fingers atop his, inky eyes and half-mast lids. Music crept through the hall, a quiet piano melody, the first hum of strings, and then a billowing, orchestral swell. Hisoka led, sweeping Illumi into a soft-footed waltz, watching the slip of his hair catch and scatter the light as he swayed and twirled on his tiptoes. Gentle as a lakeside tide, Illumi ebbed and flowed around him, flooded his vision. Symbols crashed, and Hisoka let out a crow of laughter, pulled Illumi to his chest so close that their lips parted around the others.’ The cellos took a minor turn as Illumi kissed him, a twisting, saltwater tongue darting between his teeth, untying him from the shoulders up. Silk hands rucked up his neck, into his hair, lifted him higher, higher. The music muffled and the light coalesced in tender streams; the ribboned walls dulled, melted away into gray and ichor: Hisoka’s apartment, gutted and forgotten. But they dipped and twirled on, babbling their own music, nipping at each other, peeling off layers; Hisoka’s coat crumbled in a cobwebbed corner; Illumi, cummerbund and popped buttons, pink and panting. Water splashed beneath their feet, now cold and bare, and light sucked from the universe as if through a funnel, but all Hisoka could feel was Illumi’s breath on his face. 

He woke to sunrise as he always did, caught smiling in the last dreg of his dream, dewdrop tears warming the corners of his eyes. He was undressed and his skin was balmy and lavender-scented-- not at all how he remembered falling asleep the previous night. Behind the gauze curtains, Dayroad was waking up, the trees wet and lush in their sanctuary of exhaust.  _ Without Netero’s assistance, I’ll probably have to break my lease… _

_ Oh well. Wealth is boring. And I have…  _

As he rolled onto his side, Hisoka’s heart beat with anticipation of Illumi’s face, slack with sleep, and sank when he realized that the bed next to him was empty. It fell even further, dragging the corners of his mouth down, when he got up and saw that Illumi was nowhere to be found at all.  _ Oh.  _ Falling to a slumped seat at the edge of his bed, Hisoka let his face drop into his hands.  _ If it seems too good to be true…  _

A rattle from the bedside table. 

Hisoka picked his head up, eyed his vibrating phone like he would a bomb. Hisoka made it a point to turn off all notifications for all applications save for Blackboard. Though it was amusing to read through the bile slung at him from every shade of ex, he didn’t want curses stacking on his home screen when he was meeting with students, or god forbid, seducing them.  _ And now, it vibrates.  _

Forgetting misery for a moment, Hisoka rose to pluck the phone from where it lay. The notification which had roused him from his self-deprecation had been a simple Blackboard reminder --a student had handed in a late annotated bibliography-- but it sat atop one missed call and once voicemail from an “LM.” 

Hisoka was appalled at the euphoria which shuddered through him, like the first breath after a freestyle sprint.  _ Little Mouth.  _ He could barely keep his hands still as he pressed the phone to his ears to listen. 

_ Hi Hisoka.  _ Illumi’s familiar monotone, which to him, after days of hanging on each terse word, sounded like a symphony. “I’ve decided I can’t trust you. I can’t see you. Don’t contact me unless it’s about school.”

_ Oh.  _ Again, Hisoka ached, closed the application and stared until his phone screen blurred.  _ And after everything…  _

_ Wait.  _

The background behind his apps seemed altered somehow; brighter. His heartbeat picked up again when he realized it was text; squinting he could make out- “Phone may be bugged. Check notes.”  _ Clever, Little Mouth. Though a little dramatic, don’t you think? _

The letter in his notes app was coarse as ever, but he read it in Illumi’s one-note birdsong, saw his sincere, black eyes, and could not stop himself from smiling. 

Hi again, Hisoka. 

Nothing has changed between us. I’m getting a new phone, but before that, there is something I want to try. Not sure how long it will take, but I will let you know when I’m finished. In the meantime, do not contact me directly, and please keep practicing your Ten and Zetsu, the way we did yesterday. Also, move forward with the project as planned. Also, take a look through your book collection and see if you find anything out of the ordinary. 

‘Till we meet again,

LM :) 

_ Absurd. I don’t know what I was expecting.  _ Hisoka shook his head, fell back onto the soft plume of his mattress. His chest felt hot when he palmed his trembling heart.  _ I guess I’ll take a break from swimming for today.  _ His muscles ached from the stress Illumi’s mother’s Hatsu had put him through, and his thoughts were far from exercise. Just as his fingers brushed the down beneath the puckered band of his boxers, he noticed a small spot on his carpet in front of the door.  _ Blood?  _ He sat up, clawing through his hair as his erection deflated. 

It wasn’t blood. Instead, the spot on Hisoka’s carpet was a dime bag, which held two red capsules. Breath left Hisoka’s lungs in a woosh as he squatted to roll the pills between his fingers.  _ Eternal Return,  _ here, as if by summons.

_ But how did it get here, I wonder.  _

Hisoka frowned as his mind spread out across multiple directions. 

_ There’s something I’m missing here.  _ He had a few options in Illumi’s manufactured absence, but one was far more promising, more entertaining, than the others.  _ I guess it’s time to pay a visit to the Rat.  _ According to Ging, Pariston Hill, a Pandora’s Box of gossip and rumor, was on house arrest with the rest of the Zodiacs at Fire Island.  _ If nothing else,  _ Hisoka thought, sauntering into his closet,  _ he’ll spill something useful about Nen. He owes me that much.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe >:) 
> 
> thank you for reading!!!!


	14. Phantom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything had happened in an instant: lavish parties, back rooms, his fingers on the inside of Yorknew’s elite-- behind curtains, before cameras, it scarcely mattered. Hisoka had basked in it, had loved turning derisive grins into desperate pleas as he twisted, bit, and licked his way up and up.

A scream tore through The Cemetery door the moment Illumi unlocked it, followed by the familiar snap of bone. Illumi froze, his palm against the cracked door. Mineral fog ghosted into the hall, and lights exploded into his face as usual, but the music was punctuated by shouts and shuffle, shattering glass, the slaps of knuckles and palms against skin.

 _What the fuck?_ Illumi could make out shadowed figures, electrified each time the lights flashed, tearing at each other, slamming themselves together. He let the door go, but in the moment before it clicked shut, a sharp, “Zoldyck!” called out over the din. Suddenly, Illumi was being crowded into the hallway by a wall of fog, by a messy-headed Chrollo with a torn blazer hanging off of one shoulder and a bloody smile cracked across his face. 

“Hello,” he said, keeping the door ajar with his toe.

Illumi only stared.

“Machi!” Chrollo called, twisting back toward the roiling club, his normally quiet voice somehow carrying over the noise once again. “I gotta go!”

“‘Kay!” A muffled shout rang out over another hideous crash.

Chrollo whirled back around to face Illumi. His multi-pocketed pants were slung low on his hips, and the layers of chains still gleamed at his neck. Between, lines of tattoos twisted over his chest and stomach, some professional, some which looked like they’d been hammered into his skin in a dark garage. His nipples were pierced silver. Though he was mussed and out of breath, a busted lip was his only apparent injury. 

“Sorry about all this.” He swiped a hand over his mouth and stepped forward as Illumi stepped back. “Turns out whoever gave us these…” He flashed his keycard. “Was not a fan of my line of work.” Chrollo snickered, brushing past the board-straight Illumi and starting down the hall. He smelled of incense. 

“Anyway, my people can take care of it. Let’s find somewhere else to go.” The smile left his voice and Illumi could hear distinctly non rhythmic pounding coming from the walls. “I suspect you’re not here to get high and dance with me anyway.”

“You invited me,” Illumi clarified, thumping after him on his platforms. 

“Well yes,” Chrollo acknowledged, pressing the button at the elevator. “And I must admit that you hide yourself well. But I suppose you could say that I have an… awareness of my surroundings.” 

Chrollo stared. They were face-to-face now, cross-armed, their inverted reflections floating just above them. Illumi swallowed, taking stock of how they would look, traipsing about the city dressed as they were. 

“Where are we going?”

Chrollo took a long step forward, cocked his head in Illumi’s face. “You’re not from Yorknew, are you? Mm, say your name for me?” 

Illumi blinked. In some ways it was harder to stay straight-faced around Chrollo than it was Hisoka. “Illumi… Zoldyck.” His lips barely moved.

“No middle?” 

Illumi sensed people outside the elevator, but he knew not to react. “No.”

Chrollo tapped his chin. 

Before he had time to respond, the doors parted with a metallic whir, and Chrollo grabbed Illumi by the arm, yanking him from the opening doors and tight around the corner, wedging him in the notch of a first floor doorway. Seconds later, a group of grave-faced YNPD officers dashed up to the closing elevator, the helm of which thumbed the button several times. The officers did not even notice the two men holding their breath inches away.

 _I guess that’s the end of The Cemetery,_ Illumi thought with a twinge of sadness. _I guess it’s a wonder it survived as long as it did._ He couldn’t really say that the bar had been a positive force in his life, but it had allowed him a place to go when he’d needed to. The Cemetery had seen more of Illumi than he’d seen of himself-- not Illumi _Zoldyck,_ either, just Illumi. And Chrollo had taken that away, simply by walking inside. 

After the police disappeared, Chrollo turned toward Illumi so that their bodies were nearly touching. 

“Your heart isn’t beating at all,” Chrollo observed. He pressed a thin-fingered hand to Illumi’s chest. “Oh, but now it is. Why is it that _I_ make you nervous, but _that_ ,” he pointed in the direction of the elevator. “Doesn’t.” 

_Shit._ “I do not like being touched.” 

“Oh, I think we both know that’s a lie…” Chrollo pushed on Illumi’s heartbeat; breathed hot on Illumi’s neck. Illumi bit the tip of his tongue and forced himself still. He hadn’t been lying-- though there was no pain in it, Chrollo’s touch made Illumi’s stomach squirm. _Because it’s not Hisoka’s._

“Who are you?” Chrollo continued, lifting his hand and pocketing it. “Your accent says Padokea…” 

“Yes,” Illumi said. Despite his discomfort, neither his face nor tone had moved. “My parents are philanthropists and, um, anthropologists. From Padokea.” 

“I see,” Chrollo nodded, twisting to look back down the hall. “You and I have lived very different lives. Do you trust me?” 

“Do I have to trust you?” Illumi realized that he sounded a bit like Hisoka; asking cryptic questions usually wasn’t his style. Either way, he didn’t need trust. He had his needles between his shoulder blades, and he’d been meditating in Ten all week, breathing deeply and imagining himself a god. 

Chrollo shrugged out of his torn blazer and tied it around his waist. “Come on. You trusted me enough to take products from me. Tell me,” he pushed through the front door into the bustling night, which shone like a cracked geode. Eyes turned to them immediately, averted quickly. It was Yorknew after all. “How did Hisoka’s face look when you showed him the Eternal Return?” 

“I didn’t,” Illumi replied. “I told you, I didn’t want to ensnare him.” 

Chrollo looked back at him with an unreadable expression, and his grin slowly reemerged. “You’re naive, Illumi. That’s probably why you’re heartbroken right now.” His voice said naive, but his eyes said, _foolish._

Illumi said nothing as invisible triumph washed over him like warm bath water. Somehow, amid the chaos of the bar, the police, and the shouting city, Chrollo had remembered Illumi’s weeklong effort to appear dumped. It felt like pettiness, drama, like a sitcom Kikyo would’ve switched off with a scowl rather than the bleeding seduction of his old craft. But it was a victory nonetheless. 

“Where are we going?” Illumi asked, when he realized they’d already walked several blocks, and that the buildings were starting to shrink and decay. Before his eyes, brownstones with curved staircases and parked Vespas gave way to dusty store-fronts, overgrown window gardens, and cracked shutters. One of the city’s rare above-ground metro lines stretched overhead, groaning and belching dust as the train clattered over the tracks. The houses looked like they might come apart under the force. 

Chrollo pointed, once the train noise had faded. “It’s just across that bridge.” 

Illumi nodded. He supposed that his serenity was outing him as something other than the son of anthropologists, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Chrollo already knew that. 

At the other side of the bridge, Illumi and Chrollo stepped over crumbling concrete, between brown buildings covered in shattered windows, vines and rot. Smokestacks leaned in the distance, coughing out sludge so thick Illumi could see it in the night sky. As they walked, forward still, a bitter smile had found its way onto Chrollo’s face. “My old apartment,” he gestured obliquely at a squat, tan dwelling with shuttered windows and paint splatter across its face. “I bet my mother’s blood is still in the carpets.” 

Illumi looked down at his shoes, which were tipped with dust. 

They walked on. A matted dog with ribs ballooning from its torso scampered across their path, and then Illumi was craning his neck up the skinny cupola of a stone chapel. The stone looked as though it was once a soft orange, but in the night, amid the smog and decay, it was a gray brown. Tattered yellow caution tape was wrapped around the entrance, ivy climbed up each side, and a single stained-glass window gleamed, dusty red, in the center of the cupola: praying hands, carved with stigmata. 

“Jesus,” Chrollo scoffed. “By the looks of it you’d think this place had been abandoned for a hundred years.” 

Illumi nodded in agreement, heart flickering in his chest. The closer they got to the chapel, the stronger the scent of blood became. 

“Are you coming?” Chrollo was bounding up the chapel steps, swiping at the caution tape like the hero of an action film. Illumi was watching him from the foot of the stairs, flicking his fingers against his palms, cataloging the sting. 

_My needles are on my back._ Illumi climbed up the stairs just as Chrollo pushed the door open. Illumi thought of the tunnel hatch, and his heart ached for Hisoka. _Hisoka. What would he say if he knew where I was right now? Would he want to rescue me?_ The corner of Illumi’s mouth quirked involuntarily at the thought of the mock-necked professor, glistening in sweat, chasing him up the stairs, grabbing his arm, pulling him away. _Though, if Hisoka had had his way the other night, the Melas Oneiros would have been even worse for him. So it’s good that he doesn’t know._

_I can take care of myself._

_But it would be nice to see him._

“Excuse me, Zoldyck.” Illumi realized he’d been staring wistfully up at a flower carving on the doorframe. In front of him, Chrollo was holding the door to a gutted interior thick with grime, choked with death. Steeling himself, Illumi nodded and stepped over the threshold. Inside, each breath came with several mouthfuls of dust, and he had no loose clothing to use as a shield, so in seconds he was coughing into his fingers as he blinked through grit. With a loud crack, an electric chandelier in the center of the ceiling sparked alive to reveal a crumbling altar, adorned with a wooden cobwebbed Jesus; a rotting wood floor sticky with ichor, scattered with needles. 

Chrollo held out a handkerchief from where he stood, next to the doors, in front of the industrial light switch. “Rich boy lungs can take cocaine but not a little dust? Hisoka must have had a field day with you.” 

Illumi could not deny the irritation which rose in his chest at that. _It’s more than dust._ “Why are we here?” he managed, trying to keep his tone smooth before devolving into another fit of coughing. 

“Well, as fate would have it, this is where Hisoka and I met. He burst through those doors and tackled me with a pocketknife, wailing that I’d sold him the drugs that killed his friend. And now…” Chrollo’s voice trailed off. “Well, things certainly have changed.” 

He looked around as Illumi caught his breath. 

“I noticed something, though, when he first attacked me.” Chrollo looked, almost longingly toward the altar, and then down at a square of raised boards in the far corner. “His heart wasn’t beating at all. He was yelling at me, but he was completely calm.” 

\---

It wasn’t the killing which had bothered Hisoka. It was the stillness. The fat tears squeezing from the boy’s glowing gray eyes as he lay, flat on the filthy floorboards of that church. _I won’t stop you,_ he said, in the crease between his brows. His friends stood around in an arc, dirt on their cheeks, hands clutched to their chests. And Hisoka pulled the knife away, leaving only a pale pink stripe. Now, he regretted not pressing further, into Chrollo’s flesh, into the rust-colored stains on his own knees. 

_So much would be different._

No one would’ve asked after another dead drug runner in Yorknew. Perhaps Hisoka would still be building impossibly high houses of cards on street corners -- the original use for what he now knew was his Nen -- using the money to get high on whatever poison he could afford. 

_I suppose I would not have met Illumi._

_But maybe I would have._

Hisoka was lying undone in Pariston’s enormous bed, staring up at the canopy as he caught his breath. Fucking the Rat had felt like being throttled by the void, as usual, and all Hisoka could see now was Illumi’s face flush under him; all he could feel were Illumi’s fingers twisting nausea in his gut. 

_I’m sorry Little Mouth,_ he thought. The words were new in his mind, singeing like a brand. Though, he wasn’t sure if Illumi would even care that he fucked someone else, that he was sorry about it. _It’s for you though, you see._ The excuse hadn’t worked on Chrollo. But then, that situation had been different.

Pariston got up from beside Hisoka with a huff, and the jingle of his belt drew Hisoka’s lazy eyes up Pariston’s naked torso, to his mutedly triumphant face, and then back down to the ankle bracelet blinking below the cuff of his plaid slacks. Pariston’s hair was longer now, looping around his jaw. He would’ve been handsome if he didn’t look like he was made of wax. 

“Smooth as ever, Hisoka,” Pariston’s large brown eyes glinted. “I saw you got Netero.” He was always smiling, but his face was barren. 

“Yes.” Hisoka sat, hiked his pants up over his ass. The remnants of lube bloomed cold against the fabric. “A friend of mine told me to go see you when I did.” 

Pariston sighed, settled at his high-backed desk chair. “I suppose I have nothing to lose now.” 

_So this is what criminal punishment is like for the wealthy,_ Hisoka thought. 

Hisoka had met Pariston when he was eighteen, digging change from his pockets to buy cigarettes at a convenience store on the upper east. An act, of course. He had plenty of money from the Phantoms, but it was a fun game --he wore his hair long, then, exposed a wide strip of midriff-- sometimes, if he appeared destitute enough he could get a pack paid for by an older man’s wallet. Pariston had taken it a step further. He’d let a few bills flutter into the cashier’s hands and waited until Hisoka stepped outside to ask, “Do you want to make some real money?” 

“I have money,” Hisoka had replied petulantly, twisting a curl in his finger as he lit up. It was true. Chrollo was a genius in the business, the cobra and the charmer all-in-one, and, serendipitously, his eyes puddled at Hisoka, his would-be murderer. 

“Not like this.” Pariston plucked one of Hisoka’s cigarettes from the pack and pushed it between his lips. “No one has money like this.” He went on, gesticulating theatrically over jets and art collections, islands and law. Even as he described the wealth of god, his eyes belonged on a corpse. That had been enough for Hisoka. He’d wanted to peel back those eyes, look at the rot beneath them. 

However, instead of peering beyond the veil of Pariston’s dead stare, Hisoka had woken up one morning, rolled from under Chrollo's arm, to find that videos of him were plastered all over the internet. 

“You have a future in the industry,” Pariston had insisted. 

Everything had happened in an instant: lavish parties, back rooms, his fingers on the inside of Yorknew’s elite-- behind curtains, before cameras, it scarcely mattered. Hisoka had basked in it, had loved turning derisive grins into desperate pleas as he twisted, bit, and licked his way up and up. Once he’d freed himself from the Phantoms, Pariston even sent him to college, gave him drugs to help him study, passed his term papers to department heads, publishing house CEOs. Of course, Pariston had thought it was all nepotism that led to Hisoka’s success, and Hisoka had been patient in his prescribed role, waiting like a river reptile, his nose just high enough to smell his surroundings. 

“Tell me, does Eternal Return mean anything to you?” Hisoka felt his eyes burning. 

Pariston leaned back in his chair; his curling lip answered before he did. “It certainly meant something to Netero.” 

_Thought so. The one detail I overlooked._

During the last year of his relationship with Chrollo, Hisoka had spent more and more time with Pariston, who had elected himself Hisoka’s ‘manager.’ He never told Chrollo what he was doing on the side, but Chrollo knew by the marks on his body, the jewelry and new clothes, maybe even the videos, that Hisoka was no longer relying solely on the Phantoms. _I should have suspected he would look into it._ If Hisoka had been honest, Chrollo only would’ve worried for his safety, begging him to stop with downy eyes. _You can never trust a fat cat,_ he always used to say, as he swirled beakers, knelt down to eye droppers from behind cartoonish goggles. _You have to do everything yourself._ But really, Chrollo never trusted anyone other than the Phantoms, and even that had proved too far. 

Pariston went on. “Potent stuff-- Netero used to like to mix it into drinks at parties, just to see what would happen. Always while you were gone, of course. He wasn’t that careless. Someone did die, though, at one of the parties. I’m not sure if it was because of the drug...” Pariston continued, occasionally glancing up at the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. 

“You always were his blind spot, though. His little beggar. You’re the worst thing that ever happened to him, it turns out.” For the first time, Pariston’s voice carried some weight. But it was not anger. _More like awe._ “How could you have such little loyalty to him?”

“Please, Pariston, why would I be loyal to him?” Hisoka grinned, straightened his spine, and twisted to wink at the camera. “All he ever did was watch me have sex with men twice my age for three years. Chrollo did more for me than that, and I still sold him out.”

“He paid your bills. Your tuition. He wiped the trashy porn you did from the face of the earth. He got you hired.” His normally probing voice had fallen to a rapt whisper, as if they sat in the pews of a church. 

“My bills? Netero had the money to pay my bills fifty times a year for fifty years. And the rest of those problems he created for himself. He just liked the way I gargled balls.” It was bliss to finally say this to Pariston’s plastic face; Hisoka should’ve done it years ago. 

“Hmm.” The awe was gone from Pariston’s voice. He was looking around the room, as if he’d finally realized that he could not leave. 

“And what about Chrollo? What did Netero give him?” 

Pariston’s mouth stretched into a venomous smile, his lower lids bunching under his huge pupils. “Information.” His gaze jumped back up to the camera, and he rolled so close in his chair that Hisoka could feel his body heat, the brush of curled fingers against his cheek. “It’s a shame, really, the minds of you young people, so sick with love and hate. The Zoldycks have their claws in you, and now I can’t have you for myself.” 

Hisoka’s breath stuttered. _What does he mean by that? He must know about Illumi. That explains why Netero--_

He took a deep breath as Pariston gave a low chuckle, realizing he was pressing into a weak spot. _I can figure that out later. I still have questions._

“Are you a Nen user, Pariston?” He had half-a-mind to release his Ten right there, but he knew better. Pariston may be trapped, but the camera indicated that he was not disconnected. Hisoka had to keep his cards close. 

“Oh, I was,” Pariston gleamed even brighter. 

Hisoka remembered something Illumi had mumbled on Tuesday morning, as he rubbed antibiotics onto his ruined fingers. _I’ve heard that the Sahertan government tortures the Nen out of you, squeezes it from your pores. Every drop. You’re as good as dead after that. Which is why, if we go through with this plan, you should keep yours hidden._

But Pariston didn’t seem dead. 

“What do you mean, you were?” 

“I used to be able to turn myself into anything with my Nen, cast glamours into the eyes of my onlookers. They could see me as something beautiful, something menacing, a loved one, even. But, being that I’m trapped here, Netero arranged to have my ability transferred, if you will. I don’t have a clue how he managed it; I was so drugged up for the procedure that I barely remember. But it’s gone. I can still conjure Ten, if I work, but my aura center just isn’t the same now. I’ll age and die like every other schmuck in the world.” 

_Cast glamours, huh? I can do that without Nen._

Hisoka replayed his conversation with Pariston on the ferry from Fire Island, in the car ride home, until he was dozing, head back, knees-up on the couch, an empty glass of wine balanced against his thigh. Though Pariston had clammed up after talking about his lost Nen ability, he’d spilled enough to make the sex almost worth it. Chrollo, Netero’s drug dealer. Netero, able to manipulate others’ Nen. And finally, the Zoldycks’ claws. Each thought was troubling enough on its own, and Hisoka longed to tell Illumi, to watch his black eyes as they drank in what he’d learned. _Would he panic? Would he be proud?_

Drunkenness and drowsiness only intensified his desire. He wanted Illumi’s lips on his lips, wanted his chest on his chest, his arms around his shoulders.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Hisoka started awake. He’d forgotten to silence the notifications. 

It was a text from an unknown Yorknew number: “Hi. New phone. Open the door.” Hisoka’s heart leapt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> to those who have followed this story from the beginning: thank you for all your support thus far!!! there's still a bit of a haul til the end, but i hope everyone will be satisfied with the way everything goes. 
> 
> sorry this update took so long- work got rly busy for me last week, and i had a packed weekend. but hopefully i'll be able to upload again this week!! :D 
> 
> luv u all, please let me know what you thought in the comments!! <3


	15. Iscariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When Hisoka does to you what he did to me, you’ll be ready.” 

“The oldest Zoldyck is weak. Thin skinned. He’ll need some help. Look in your book.” Chrollo hung up the phone, slid into his silver blazer to a low, sarcastic whistle from Machi. _I already knew that._ He only wished he didn’t have to rely so much on stolen magic. 

“Wonder if we’ll see any old friends tonight,” Machi said, examining her new bright blue manicure. “While you’re off fucking that assassin, or whatever it is you want to do.” 

“Oh without a doubt,” Chrollo replied, drawing a thin line of eyeliner under his lid and posing. _Tonight will be fun._

\---

The basement of Chrollo’s chapel was empty save for a single naked bulb, glowing weakly, hanging at the end of a wire, and a table beneath it, stacked with items and covered by a stained sheet. In the far corner, Illumi could make out the dim outline of a wall faucet, with a bucket to catch the drip. He was sure that with more light, all manner of crawling creatures, their spun homes and prey, would materialize across the ceiling, but unlike the ground floor, the air in the basement was dust-free and humid, soothing Illumi’s burning eyes and throat. 

“Now, the fun can really begin,” Chrollo clapped his hands together, gliding to the center of the room. A wild grin across his face, he turned back to Illumi, who was staring from the last stair. “To be honest, Zoldyck, for a rich brat, you’re quite cooperative. Have you always let people lead you around like a child?” 

Illumi flicked his middle finger against his palm so hard that the bandage loosened. 

“I mean, where’s the line?” Chrollo continued, still half-turned as he lifted the sheet like a lid from a boiling pot. “Or do you like me? Do you have a thing for poor bastards? Criminals?” With a flick of his wrist, he threw the sheet aside to reveal a collection of multicolored jars, beakers, and a single black cauldron. He closed his eyes, whispered a few unintelligible words, and a ridge-spined black book materialized in his open hand, glowing with aura and smelling of incense. 

Illumi’s eyes popped for a split second before he snapped himself back to stillness. _He’s a Nen-user?_

“Well?” Chrollo asked, his smile growing even wider. 

“What?” Illumi asked, pretending to be preoccupied with a crack on the wall, which split the corner like lightning. “I wasn’t listening. What’s that book?”

“It’s my recipe book, my Book of Spells,” Chrollo replied, undeterred, flipping through a few pages. Pale aura was seeping from the book, forming a sort of weak Ten around Chrollo’s body. He was holding its spine with steepled fingers, like it hurt to touch. “If you come closer, you can look inside.” 

_Is he bluffing? Or does he really not know about Nen?_ Either way, Illumi took the bait and the final step, crossing the room to stand over Chrollo’s shoulder. The pages of the book were covered in what looked like Church Slavonic-- words that Illumi couldn’t even begin to translate, yet Chrollo was tracing them with his free hand, as if they made perfect sense to him. At the top of each page Chrollo turned to, was an embellished letter followed by an ornate title. Below, the lines were arranged in lists, like recipes, as Chrollo had said. 

“Who gave this to you?” Illumi squinted at the lettering, wishing he’d paid more attention when Kikyo had tried to teach him Russian. Though, he didn’t know how much help a modern language would be on something like this. 

“Isaac Netero,” Chrollo replied proudly. “He said I was the only one in the world who could use it.” 

“I don’t know who that is,” Illumi replied blankly, as his mind filled with static. _Does Hisoka know about this?_ And then, _how much does Hisoka actually know?_

“Really?” Chrollo chuckled, finally stopping on a page which had a large “9” at the top. “So much for that Religious Studies major.” Keeping the book propped atop his fingers, he began rummaging one-handedly through the vials, jars, and beakers on the table, arranging some in a row at the front. 

“I’m failing college.” Illumi replied. 

Chrollo gave a breathy laugh. “Netero is a famous academic and collector. This book…” he raised the volume, wincing slightly. “...is ancient. And I was the first person besides Netero who could understand it. This was really the only good thing Hisoka ever brought me.” 

“Hisoka?” Illumi asked, trying to imbue his monotone with as much innocence as he could manage while he scanned the containers on the table. Chrollo had scooted the cauldron so that it sat directly before him, and Illumi noticed that it was sitting atop a battery-operated hotplate. 

“Yes- has he not told you?” Chrollo seemed pleased as he began pouring bits of each arranged substance into the cauldron one-by-one. 

“No…” A bit of Chrollo’s aura was wafting from the shield around him, swirling into the cauldron, turning the powders and liquids inside a cloudy blue. Chrollo switched on the hotplate, plucked a dusty silicon ladle from the far edge of the table. One of his chains hung dangerously low to the mixture inside the cauldron, and he jerked away from it suddenly, as if it had burned his skin. 

_It seems like he really doesn’t know about his aura. What did Netero tell him? ‘Book of Spells,’ Chrollo had called it. Is Chrollo really that naive?_

“Back when Hisoka and I used to date, he worked for Netero. Of course, it was Hisoka, so his abilities were quite limited to, well, you know how he is.” Illumi found himself wanting to protest, but kept quiet. 

“... Needless to say, Hisoka didn’t tell me about his work at all, so I followed him and found the Zodiacs on my own. As it turned out, Netero was a big fan of my products, especially the little pill I gifted you the other day…”

_Does he know what Netero did?_

“Eventually, I revealed my identity to Netero-- which, in those days, I almost never did. It’s how I kept myself from getting caught for so long. But I’m glad I trusted him, because he advocated for me after my arrest, got me a lawyer, helped my friends and I to be acquitted of the worst crimes… and, of course, told me what to do to get released on good behavior…” 

“I see,” said Illumi, staring back at the faucet, returning to the lightning crack, and then finally to the cauldron, which had turned a greenish hue and was popping with fat bog bubbles: the perfect image of a witch’s brew. “And… how were you caught, exactly? If Netero was protecting you?”

“Hisoka made a deal with some cop. Turned in my identity, my friends’ identities, and exposed all of our connections, stashes, and hideouts in exchange for immunity.” 

_And do you know who was protecting Hisoka all that time?_ It was almost sad. Netero was craftier than even Illumi had imagined. 

“But what about the Zodiacs?” he adjoined, more out of pity than anything else. 

“What?” Chrollo’s pupils shrunk. Before he could answer, however, the contents of the cauldron began to twist, emitting a vapor which expanded, filling the room with a thick, musky smell. 

“Is this supposed to happen?” Illumi pushed the handkerchief to his lips again.

“Oh yes,” Chrollo replied. And then, his book dissolved into the vapor like a summer cloud, and Chrollo gritted his teeth before plunging his hands into the cauldron. There was a hiss, the acrid smell of burning flesh, and a brilliant stream of light flashed from the cauldron’s open mouth, slamming into Chrollo’s face, making him squint his eyes. Illumi watched, awestruck as Chrollo lifted his hands, which were mangled, covered in white, bubbling blisters. Between his thumb and index finger he held a tiny glass vial of black liquid. Instantly, the light snuffed, the vapor evaporated into nothing, and the cauldron sat, empty and sizzling with the remaining heat. 

“Your hands…” Illumi felt a rush of sympathy for Chrollo as he set the vial down on the table. 

“Ah...” Chrollo looked down at his ruined palms with anguish. “It didn’t hurt me like this when I tested it…” 

For a split second, Illumi saw Killua over a nearly-dead body, unable to finish the job. He instinctively twisted, reaching for the pouch on his back. “I can help,” he murmured, producing two needles: one for each hand. And then, “Do you trust me?” 

Chrollo stared at him, eyes shining, and held out his hands, which hung limp at the end of his arms. 

_It’s safe. He can’t even sense Nen._ Illumi breathed deeply. His Ten opened up around him, wrapping him like a blanket; he relished in the warmth for a moment before concentrating the energy into a healing Hatsu he developed while training Kalluto. It was flimsy and purple around the needles; he’d never quite perfected it, but it should be enough for Chrollo’s burns. 

Once the needles were doused in aura, and the flow was steady, Illumi took Chrollo’s hands gingerly, turned them over palms-up, and pressed the needles through the rippled skin into central acupoints. He left them there, and closed his eyes as beads of sweat gathered on his brow. It took more than he anticipated to imagine himself a healer. He’d never quite been one before.

When Illumi opened his eyes again, he met Chrollo with a hypnotic gaze. _Heal._ He directed the energy to expand around Chrollo’s hands, and watched from the bottom edge of his vision as the blisters puckered and burst, slicking Chrollo’s palms with clear pus, and then flattened into angry red discs. With each pop, Illumi’s shoulders sagged with fatigue, his heart working desperately in his chest. His blurry memories of when he’d felt like a caretaker were only enough to flatten the worst of the blisters and balm some of the pain in those remaining. He said as much, in a faint whisper, as he removed the needles. 

Illumi squatted, pressing the base of his palm to his forehead. His body felt heavy; he closed into Zetsu.

Chrollo, still standing, was staring at his half-healed hands with eyes like dinner plates. “I-- how did you do that?” 

“It’s a family secret,” Illumi huffed, already feeling the curl of regret. _The real question is ‘why.’_

“But,” Chrollo lowered to Illumi’s level, stretching his fingers and admiring the glossy scars. “What about your hands?”

“Ah,” Illumi reached behind himself and dropped the needles back into his open pouch. “Guess I never thought about it.” With a few more quick breaths, Illumi’s heart slowed to a manageable pace. In his exhaustion, he’d nearly forgotten about Chrollo’s strange display of ‘magic,’ as he called it. To Illumi, it had seemed more akin to cooking-Nen, which Milluki had always talked about learning, if he ever gave up on computers. Suddenly, he was thinking of Hisoka, aproned and twirling around the kitchen.

“Well then, Zoldyck.” Chrollo’s voice was hushed. He was still transfixed, tracing the lines of his palms. Illumi wanted to tell him that they wouldn’t look nearly as healed in daylight. “Now it’s my turn to give you something.” 

He stood up and took the vial in his hands. “This is for you. It is a drug called Number 9. It is a steroid, and like all steroids, there are risks involved, specific parameters. As Number 9 metabolizes, for a sixty-six minute period, the drug turns your emotion to raw power, and you can accomplish superhuman feats of destruction, overcome mental blocks to commit immoral acts. However, if you do not evacuate it from your body before it completely metabolizes, you’ll die, slowly and painfully.” He glowed as he spoke, ominous in the dim light, gazing at the vial as if it contained part of his soul. _Which_ , Illumi mused, _in_ _a way, it does._

“When Hisoka does to you what he did to me, you’ll be ready.” 

\---

The day Chrollo was arrested, he had not gone quietly, but he had gone without a fight. The others: Machi, Shizuku, Feitan, Phinks-- they’d gone fighting. Feitan had taken a bullet to the left shoulder, Machi a knee to the gut. But Chrollo-- he went begging, tears streaking his cheeks like claw marks. 

“Please, just kill me,” he’d hiccuped, as an emotionless YNPD officer straddled his lower back, clapped handcuffs around his slender wrists. Hisoka could almost hear his heart, once firm, squelching like a bog in his chest. “Please, Hisoka, I love you.” 

At that, Hisoka had looked down at Chrollo, his drool and tremble, his chin smeared with dirt, and his heart was fluttering with a pale delight. 

“I would, but I have somewhere to be,” he said, tight-lipped. And then, he’d simply stepped over his lover’s prone body, clicked down the chapel steps, and slid, calm as a monk, into the backseat of Pariston’s car. For a season of his life, Hisoka had been the Phantoms’ right hand, yet no officer had tried to stop him, only looked on impotently as his curls bobbed behind the dimmed window. 

Hisoka was remembering the moment, his muted pleasure at Chrollo’s broken face, as he unlocked the door for his new lover. This one stood stoic but loved like a dust storm, getting into all of Hisoka’s cracks, stinging his eyes, smothering his breath. Illumi would never beg for death; he would simply engulf it, take everything with him. Hisoka only hoped he could see the day. 

In the doorway, Illumi’s silence crushed Hisoka’s grin. At his first sight of Illumi, Hisoka had beamed, looked him up and down with his hands on his hips-- Illumi’s hair was windswept, his bare middle and upper thighs gripped to redness by a nylon harness. Hisoka had wanted to grab him by the hips and peel his clothes off with the door still open, and he would’ve, if it hadn’t been for the pain evident in Illumi’s face, the subtle animal gleam in his red-rimmed eyes, the tension in his hands, one tight around the opposite shoulder, the other white-knuckled around his phone. It was like the day Hisoka had mentioned Netero, only now, Hisoka knew of the danger Illumi posed.

Nonetheless, _I could prod him. Might be fun._ He imagined pinching Illumi’s cheeks, adopting a singsong tone, tickling the curve of his waist until his hand was slapped away. But there was a sort of menacing electricity about Illumi; Hisoka was afraid to touch. He kept his hands clasped behind his back and looked. 

Without removing his shoes or saying a word, Illumi brushed past Hisoka, fell into the corner of the couch, sat with his arms crossed. 

“Illumi?” Hisoka crept after him, stopping in the entranceway to the living room. “What’s up?”

Illumi twisted to look at him, tapping his index finger on the inside of his elbow. His knee was bouncing, his jaw was pulsing. He opened his mouth, and closed it, eyes narrowing. 

Panic was rising in Hisoka’s chest. There was something familiar about this; it was the look of betrayal. He was suddenly back in the outskirts apartment, staring at Chrollo on the floor. Only this time, it tasted like bile. 

“What happened?” Hisoka was shocked at his voice, at the weight of it in his throat. 

Illumi’s nose twitched, his shoulders rounded. He folded his hands in his lap. “Nothing. I’m fine,” he said, primly, suddenly rubbing his hair down and adjusting the straps around his waist and thighs. His mouth curved into a stiff smile, but his eyes still looked wrong to Hisoka. Too fiery, too… 

“Do you have any tea? Chamomile, maybe? My throat is dry.” 

An uneasiness stretched between them, pulled taut. Hisoka paused. _Tea?_ He looked around the room, making brief eye contact with his Mary statue, drummed his fingers on his thigh. He did have chamomile tea. 

“Why… is your throat dry?” He tried to raise his voice to a cheerful lilt, but it cracked. 

“I inhaled a lot of dust by accident.” Illumi was too still. And the _eyes._

“I see,” Hisoka padded into the kitchen, filled and started the electric kettle, carded through the cabinets for the yellow box of chamomile. He was so distracted by worry that it took him twice around the entire kitchen to realize that the tea was at the very front of the first cabinet he opened. “Ah.” 

Hisoka bristled at the sound of his own voice, half-expecting a cold hand to close over his shoulder. But Illumi remained in the living room, eerily silent. 

“So, how was your week?” he called over the hiss of the kettle as it warmed.

“Fine,” Illumi replied, tersely. Hisoka glanced over his shoulder to see that Illumi wasn’t even looking at him. 

Hisoka chewed his lip, pacing in his kitchen until the kettle clicked. Even beyond the context of his particular relationship to Illumi, he was not used to being unable to charm those around him. Ever since his youth, Hisoka had loved coaxing out adoring looks, especially from those who resisted him at first. 

“I like fixing broken things,” he’d told Pariston, in one of their obligatory post-coital conversations. “But I also like breaking things that have been fixed.”

“So, a God complex? Join the club.” Pariston had not been impressed. 

But it had never happened like this. Aside from the moment of pause he’d had listening to Tuesday morning’s voicemail, Hisoka had every reason to believe in Illumi’s unfailing loyalty. Illumi had come back after The Cemetery, Illumi had come back when he thought Hisoka was working with Netero, he’d come back after meeting Chrollo-- even Pariston had acknowledged, in his way, Illumi’s dedication. What’s more, Hisoka had convinced himself that Illumi would never be fixed enough for him to break. He’d been content. 

He poured steaming water into a large, ceramic mug and watched as it went golden over the teabag. _You’re overreacting,_ he told himself. _Maybe Illumi is just like this sometimes. He said he was fine. He doesn’t lie._

Illumi’s expression did not change when Hisoka emerged from the kitchen with his tea. Hisoka swallowed his annoyance, the new wave of anxiety, and plastered his best charming smile across his face. After all, Illumi was here, and he was practically bursting from his clubbing outfit. 

“I missed you,” Hisoka crooned, setting the mug down on the coffee table after taking a minute to admire the swell of Illumi’s thigh, the curve of his lean pectoral muscles behind the fabric of his tank top. He added a, “careful, it’s hot,” when Illumi leaned forward, unfurled his arms to take it. 

Illumi froze mid-lean, met Hisoka’s eyes. Where he’d looked rabid before, he now resembled a cornered deer. But, the look didn’t keep Hisoka’s attention for long. 

“Your fingers,” Hisoka pointed. Illumi’s nails were unbandaged and whole. “They healed so quickly.” He’d researched how long it would take Illumi’s nails to grow back, and in the state they were in, he should’ve been bandaged for at least two more weeks. 

Illumi’s jaw clenched and he pulled his hands into fists without saying a word, and they remained staring at each other for several more seconds. 

“How did you heal them so quickly, Illumi?” Hisoka asked. _It could have been Nen._ But the more Hisoka examined it, the more wrong Illumi’s face looked-- something in the corner of his eyes, in the curve of his brow, even the way he was sitting, with his chin up rather than pitched down. He felt himself smile.“You’re close,” he said. “But you’re not _my_ Illumi.” 

“You’re right,” Illumi replied, standing up. “I’m not yours.” 

He started to walk toward the door, but Hisoka caught him by the forearm. “Who are you, then?” 

Illumi twisted and glared down at him. _Ah, now_ that _is familiar._ Hisoka would recognize the scowl anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ajfildjsfejr thank you for reading!!! let me know your thoughts in the comments.
> 
> i also think it is important for everyone to remember that illumi and chrollo were basically naked throughout the weird drug making scene. don't ask me how chrollo's nen works. (a) i don't think we know in canon and (b) im just going to gesticulate randomly at you and say "dark magic"


	16. North Yorbia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a deep breath, Illumi sent out another arm of aura, feeling for Hisoka’s bright heartbeat. But the city was silent. 

“Glamour,” Hisoka said aloud, a thrill rushing through him. “Chrollo.” 

With a flicker, Chrollo Lucilfer was standing in front of him, all swimming eyes and red mouth, in a white t-shirt and black pants. He looked shattered; exactly how he’d looked the last time Hisoka had seen him. Even the desperate fear was still plain, as it always had been. They stared at each other, Hisoka grinning catlike, and Chrollo blinking back tears.

Hisoka’s first reaction was amusement. Chrollo’s softness was no longer disarming, nor infuriating. Hisoka understood, now, that he was dangerous, but he did not believe it. Even as he accepted that Chrollo could be the source behind all of Illumi’s fear, the driver of his revenge fantasy, Hisoka still saw the child who’d clung to him in the mornings, the man pushed into the chapel floor.

“So you’re a Nen-user now? When did you learn that?” Hisoka purred, still gripping Chrollo’s forearm.  _ He stole from Pariston; he must’ve stolen from Illumi’s mother as well.  _

Chrollo didn’t answer right away, but he remained in Hisoka’s grasp. “What do you mean?” 

Hisoka knew how Chrollo lied, with tremulous menace, a child’s imitation of a devil, but there was no theatre in his expression now. Hisoka let out a laugh. “You can’t be serious, Chrollo.” 

Chrollo glared, a cap over his fear and grief, bared his teeth for good measure. “Tell me what you mean, Hisoka.” 

“Oh, please. Why don’t you go ask Netero? Everyone knows about Nen but you. Me, Illumi, Illumi’s entire family including his kid siblings, the Zodiacs-- hell, I bet even your little lackeys know and just feel too bad to tell you.” 

“Fuck you,” Chrollo spat, wrenching his arm out of Hisoka’s grasp. “You have no idea what’s coming to you.” 

_ Pariston told me about all of this; I just wasn’t listening. But, there is one more thing…  _

“By the way…” Hisoka plucked the baggy of Eternal Return from his pocket, giving it a little shake. He’d been planning to tell Chrollo what fun Netero had had with his concoction, but the minute he saw Chrollo’s mouth curl into a smirk, a sudden rush of anger snuffed out his reason. He took a step closer, and his voice came out dark and hushed; Chrollo’s grin faltered.

“Don’t fuck with Illumi ever again.” Another step. “If I find out you’ve done anything to harm him, I swear I will--” 

“You’ll what?” Chrollo didn’t flinch, only rolled shoulders, stood up on the balls of his feet and knocked his forehead against Hisoka’s. “I didn’t even have to fuck with him. I just had to tell him the truth.” 

Hisoka’s rage whipped through him like a nor'easter. “Why are you here, then?” His voice raised above its usual lilt, he felt his calf muscles tensing, his hands balling. He knew he was no match for Chrollo’s strength, but his body was begging for a reason to try. Thankfully, his mouth made the first move. “If you’re so sure, why did you come here, disguised as him?” 

“Fuck you,” Chrollo said again, dropping to flat feet. This time, his voice sounded like it was being held in a clenched fist. He was studying Hisoka’s face with dilated pupils.

_ Perhaps I still have him.  _ “Get out of my sight,” Hisoka hissed, feeling the prickle of aura. “Don’t come back here.” 

And to Hisoka’s surprise, Chrollo obeyed. 

_ Or he knows I’m telling the truth. _

By the accuracy of Chrollo’s Glamour, he must’ve been studying Illumi for a while. 

Not that Hisoka blamed him. 

Hisoka had known from the moment he’d betrayed Chrollo, tempting and delicious as it had been, that he would birth a monster. Though, he hadn’t predicted that he and Chrollo would share a benefactor, or that he’d have an Illumi-shaped target on his chest when the monster emerged. 

In this musing, all Hisoka could do was laugh himself down, pulse his fists to stop them from shaking. _It was Chrollo._ _The only criminal in the world who got even softer after prison._

_ I wonder when the real Little Mouth will come back to me.  _ For a moment, he felt the phantom vapor of Melas Oneiros returning to fill his senses with images of Illumi downtrodden and in pain, but he was able to keep the visions away with the stronger bloom of excitement: the Illumi, tight-lipped and angry, that had sunk into his couch minutes before was, equally, a fiction. 

In minutes, Hisoka was undressed, small under his blankets.  _ Why do I have such a large bed?  _ He rolled onto his back, stretching his arms out as far as they would go. 

_ What was I thinking, threatening Chrollo like that?  _

_ I couldn’t do anything to him if things got serious.  _

Hisoka could only wait for the next thing to happen, and hope that Illumi would be by his side when it did. Humming darkly, he fumbled over his bedside table, bringing his phone to his ear and playing the voicemail he was supposed to delete.  _ Hi Hisoka.  _ Bright chirp. He started it over.  _ Hi Hisoka.  _

Again.  _ Hi Hisoka.  _

Hisoka conjured his Nen as he listened, leaning into its warmth and taking a deep breath, gathering it into his free hand like yarn.  _ Hi Hisoka, I’ve decided--  _ He imagined the aura solid, strong, more flexible, perhaps, the texture he imagined for his own soul. Closing his eyes, he pinched and pulled his fingers over again until the aura was heavy and tough, but pliant, like chewing gum between sore jaws.  _ Hi Hisoka, I’ve--  _ He brought it to his mouth and bit it, stretching as far as he could and watching it slingshot forward with a melodic thrum.  _ That’s it.  _

With a jerk of his wrist, Hisoka tossed his aura, watched it splatter and congeal like pink glue into his dildo collection. All he succeeded in was knocking half of his prized toys onto the floor with more drama than the dropped candelabrum.  _ So, it needs work.  _

_ But still.  _ For a moment, it had stuck. 

_ I’ll be able to protect him soon.  _

He fell asleep with the wad of aura still pulsing in his palm like a heartbeat. 

On Sunday morning, Hisoka woke feeling like a lone nesting doll. His dreams were full of fluttering black hair, arched brows, but he hadn’t heard a peep from Illumi. Instead, he woke up to a torrent of emails from Palmxstry, the woman he’d interviewed last week, which he ignored. After his morning swim, now in Ten, Hisoka paced around his apartment, haphazardly grading student essays on his phone, trying to work the jelly out of his limbs. Just as he was entering a fresh ‘D’ in the gradebook for a clear ‘B minus’ paper, his phone lit up with a call from an unknown number. 

Anticipating the best, Hisoka jumped to answer.

“Hello?”

“Professor Morow! Hi!” A woman’s voice, musical and husky; he wouldn’t have recognized her if it hadn’t been for the emails. Hisoka stopped pacing, leaned into the back of his couch. “Palm…?”

“Yes, yes it’s me. I found your phone number on the college website!” 

_ Since when is my cell phone number listed on the college website?  _ “Ah, wonderful,” Hisoka replied, trying to preserve the cheer in his voice. “How can I help you today?”  _ Probably an ex.  _

“Well, you hadn’t responded to any of my emails!” Hisoka couldn’t even manage a breath of excuse. “I was thinking about how, during our conversation, you mentioned the other forum posts that talked about residual energies, like in the forums dedicated to spotting the Padokean Orbs… and I was wondering if you had seen the recent uproar about the sightings?” 

_ Shit. This might be important.  _

“No, I haven’t seen. What’s up?” 

_ It might be a trick.  _

“Well, there were several major Padokean Orb sightings in northern Yorbia outside Almagest-- the followers don’t know if they’re the same Orbs, but the pictures look pretty spot-on to me, and they’re dramatic. North Yorbia isn’t even known for its spiritual activity, but I was thinking it could be a great opportunity for more interviews. I’m sure only the most dedicated followers of the Orbs will make the trip from Padokea; I just wanted to make sure you saw.”

“Very interesting, thank you Miss--”

“Check your emails! I’ve sent the photographs from the posts!”

“Okay, I’ll be sure to...” Hisoka managed eventually to wave her away with a series of thank yous, yeses, promises that she’d see the final project, that he and his ‘associates’ would search for the truth.  _ How would Miss Palmxstry feel _ , he wondered,  _ if she knew his single associate was both a failing college student and her hero, The Needle Murderer himself? _

In unfocused moments, Hisoka liked to imagine the Illumi of years past, butchering with a slow heartbeat. He’d read about eyes gouged out by their own fingers, guts split and sewn back up, scattered digits, and, of course, the needle marks, arranged in found patterns.  _ The Murderer made them put the needles in themselves, I bet,  _ said one commenter. Hisoka knew that Illumi had gotten sloppier over the years: rather than creative and self-inflicted deaths, he’d resorted to sluice and bludgeon. The forums’ theories were split between a guilty conscience and a copycat criminal, but the needle signatures had remained exact. Hisoka, in his turn, wondered what had caused the shift.

Palmxstry’s forums were full of debates. As Hisoka read through them, his heart was warmed by the thought that everything, each quick-fingered theorist and self-proclaimed aficionado, was impenetrably wrong. Illumi was not a damsel loosing diving justice, nor a sick hobbyist scratching some carrion itch. He could have been both, or neither; a seductress, a pulseless villain --whatever the money demanded. And now, he was all his selves at once, unraveling around the empty space beneath.  _ My Illumi,  _ Hisoka’s mind murmured. 

For all her misgivings, though, Palmxstry had made a lucky call. There was a three hour rapid train to Almagest.  _ If I leave now, I’ll get there around nine. _

_ I’ll need my research assistant.  _

\---

Illumi had half-expected to find Hisoka in the tunnels. It had been easy enough to break the lock with a burst of Ren, and much easier to find his way with the help of an industrial flashlight that he’d purchased along with his new phone. He hadn’t had time for the comparison before, but in solitude, the damp darkness reminded him of the passageways beneath the Zoldyck estate, where he would go when he needed to think. He’d slept most of Saturday away, so a think was long overdue.

However, even amid the familiar cavern echo, under the weight of the last two weeks, all Illumi could find in himself was worry. He feared he was overlooking a detail so close to him that it blurred. Since he’d been attending classes, he’d grown accustomed to the probing --  _ what connects all of this? What obvious fact tethers cause to effect?  _

_ What are you missing? _

When the sun was still soup in the gaps of Yorknew’s skyline, Illumi had projected tendrils of his aura through the city, searching for the sugar of Hisoka’s presence. He’d first tried it the night he’d returned with Chrollo’s vial, and he’d been just strong enough to sense the thrum of the professor’s heartbeat. As much as he’d wanted to, especially after washing the slime of Chrollo’s presence from his skin, it wouldn’t have been wise for Illumi to see Hisoka so soon after Chrollo, who, in the weeks prior, had made himself common, lurking like a house spider. Though, like Hisoka, Chrollo hadn’t been the devil he’d seemed. Instead, he was ignorantly leashed, himself the wide-eyed character he’d mistaken for Illumi. 

Friday night, as he was leaving the chapel, Illumi had looked Chrollo in the eyes and said, “If I were you, I would not trust Isaac Netero.” As a film of disbelief closed over the other man’s eyes, Illumi wondered if that was how he looked to others. 

He had also made mistakes. He should’ve shattered the vial of black liquid in the same arc that he’d smashed his bugged phone down his apartment stairs. Yet, the Number 9 was weighing down the pocket of his windbreaker as if it were made of lead, swinging with every step. He should’ve healed his fingers instead of Chrollo’s hands, but they still smarted under bandages. 

But at least Illumi hadn’t trusted Netero. No, he’d gone for a man who wore his lies like a badge of honor, instead of hiding them in bookshelves and charity. Hisoka had seen through all that, as he’d seen through Illumi, and everything else.  _ Everything will make sense once I talk to Hisoka.  _ The thought made Illumi’s steps feel weightless, even as they splashed and reverberated through the underground. 

He stopped walking when his foot crunched over a white shard of bone: a human rib, curved, and detached from its frame. Scattered nearby were the remnants of a pelvis, and atop a mound of congealed garbage glinted two golden teeth. Smiling faintly, Illumi imagined Hisoka and his friends, perhaps Chrollo too, crouched here, alive between death, as he had been once. In his family, there were always two types: the ones like Kikyo, who was chilled to tremor by death, and the ones like Silva, who didn’t view death as an option. He wondered if Hisoka was afraid to die. 

_ If he is, I’ll keep him from it.  _ With a deep breath, Illumi sent out another arm of aura, feeling for Hisoka’s bright heartbeat. But the city was silent. 

Illumi went cold, grabbed for his phone with shaking hands, stinging fingers fumbling with thick denim pockets. 

When Illumi finally wrestled his phone from his jeans, his screen lit with a single notification, a forwarded email from Hisoka Morow, half-an-hour old. Even as relief flooded his body, his breath stuck in his throat as he pressed it open, scanning over the lines several times before they made sense. 

At the top, an invitation: “For the project. I’ll be investigating. Meet there if you are inclined. Much to discuss. --Professor M”

Below was hastily-pasted text from one of the conspiracy forums Illumi had found during his feverish research: “Huge Orb Sighting In Almagest? Never Before Seen Display,” and a slew of chatter about the migrating mystery of Padokea, the Orbs’ ‘extended kingdom,’ and other nonsense. In his mind, Illumi only saw the gnarled face of his father, who, except at Kukuroo Mountain, never loosed his destruction where others could see. When Illumi’s breath returned, his heartbeat was in his throat. 

One comfort remained: he hadn’t made the mistake of leaving his needles at home. There was no way he was going to let Hisoka go after Silva’s handiwork alone.

The train ride was three hours. Illumi looked for Hisoka, but decided it was probably for the best that they wouldn’t be riding together. Still unable to sense the professor, though, Illumi found himself sick with worry, ready to unwind every bandage and carve into himself when he collapsed into his seat. To avoid injury, he slid into Zetsu and pressed a needle to his temple so that he woke up, with an eerily straight back, as the conductor wailed for Almagest, the final station in Yorbia. 

Almagest Station was a glass outpost in the middle of a shallow sandstone valley. The rock walls were dotted with shrubs so high and far that they looked black against the bright midmorning. Illumi was sweating the instant he stepped onto the platform, a hulking eyesore in the copper-tinted light, sandwiched between mousey moms and tiny, dye-hair teenagers. When he found the exit, each of his steps was the doubled swish of thin nylon and loose denim, the thump of sneakers on planks. But, in its thoughtless clamor, his clothing had been an auspicious choice: for once, Illumi didn’t look like he was on his way to skulk and plot. As he watched the passersby chatting amongst themselves, wall-eying him, he wondered if they were all here for the Orbs. 

_ Surely not.  _ Almagest County was home to several national parks and at least one geological museum, and the forum had less than one-hundred members. But if the destruction was as serious as the commenters had described, even ordinary tourists might be caught by their curiosity. It was likely that he and Hisoka would have to figure out a way to get people away if they wanted to do any serious investigation. 

Silva wouldn’t have released his Nen without purpose. Perhaps it was a trap, but even so, Illumi would be almost glad to walk into it if it meant getting an explanation, and he was confident that he was skilled enough, at least, to protect Hisoka. 

Just as the thought clenched in Illumi’s mind, he pushed through the glass exit door and caught a flash of light hair, white canines, golden eyes. A fierce gust of wind kicked up dust, and sealed Illumi’s eyes shut as it whipped his hair back. Hisoka stepped through the billow to embrace, to press his forehead to the bend of Illumi’s shoulder, to nuzzle up his neck. Hisoka’s lips were on Illumi’s cheek as the air settled. They were small in the valley, caught in a line of sunlight; they were an ordinary couple in the desert, celebrating a reunion. It could have been true-- strangers peeling around them were none the wiser. Hisoka pushed Illumi back to his arms’ length, looked at him through honeyed lashes. “Little Mouth,” His voice broke with the crinkle of his smile, his eyes traveled down to Illumi’s fingers, the pad of his thumb brushing the bandages. “It’s you.” 

Illumi’s blush was so furious that it stalled the words in his mouth. He nodded, rememorizing all the points and lines of Hisoka’s face, trying to preserve it in resin. There was a thin whisper of a wrinkle between Hisoka’s brows, and with a jolt of sickness, Illumi realized that he might not live to see it deepen. He reached for another hug, breathing into the starch of Hisoka’s button-down as Hisoka’s lips found the crown of his head, scorching his thoughts to oblivion. 

“Let’s go,” Hisoka’s voice was featherlight against Illumi’s hair. “We have research to do.” 

  
  


With the excited forum comments as their guide, it took Hisoka and Illumi two confused taxi rides and a one-mile roadside walk to find Silva’s damage. Illumi began to despair as he trudged through the red sand, Hisoka at his side, nose in his phone. 

“Ah,” Hisoka finally said, pointing at a gathering of colorful hair atop black clothing. “Those must be the Orb people.” 

They had wandered outside of protected land, facing away from Almagest’s beautiful public face, on the other side of a ridged rock formation which had been split by an abandoned stretch of highway. The rubble began gathering as they inched closer to the crowd, and Illumi felt his chest begin to tighten. 

“We have to get rid of this crowd somehow,” Hisoka grumbled. 

“Yeah…” Illumi agreed. “What was my father thinking…?” He could scarcely believe his eyes. Even from meters away, Illumi could already make out several huge craters between the gaggle of bodies, big enough for tens of people to lay inside. Around the craters, Silva’s blasts had produced rings of rippled earth, which collided with each other to form an undulating pattern along the ground. The onlookers had carefully avoided disrupting the design, and Illumi had to admit that, if he didn’t know better, he might think it holy. 

Never one for reverence, Hisoka cut in. “Does he normally use his Nen to destroy deserts?” 

Illumi was staring at the ground, examining the kernels of raised earth, suddenly thinking of the bone he’d stepped on in the tunnels. Sure enough, poking from one of the ridges, he saw something organic, yellow and jagged. His stomach lurched as he knelt.  _ A toenail.  _ He’d been afraid of this.

“What?” Hisoka returned to his side. 

“This…” Illumi looked up at him. “Was a job. He pulverized them.” Normally, Silva simply knocked the daylights out of his victims with a small burst of energy, leaving them to die with shattered ribs, pierced lungs. If a target annoyed him, he might go for the head, gripping the ears and pushing Nen through it like a pressure cooker; Illumi would never forget the sight, the warm splatter of brain on his cheeks. But this was different. This destruction he’d only seen once before, though he’d never found out what had set Silva off, the outburst had left only bloodsmears of three Zoldyck butlers. “He’s mad,” Illumi breathed, rising to a stand and pushing the nail gently into the ground with his toe. 

“So…” Hisoka eyed the crowd. “What… does that mean?” 

“I don’t know. Nothing good.” 

“Do you think it has something to do with Netero?” 

Illumi nibbled the inside of his lip, and as they began walking again, he heard the clink of his needles knocking against each other. “Don’t know. But I need this crowd gone.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another ridiculous chapter. if u can believe it, the first draft was MUCH more pretentious than this and i nearly melted my brain doing the betareading.
> 
> sorry to those who were expecting more chrollo,, (?) i was rly surprised by how many of u commented on him in the last chapter, and i think i've devised a way to weave him through the endgame plot in a more present way, so stay tuned... :)
> 
> but for now, orbs! 
> 
> and, as always, thank you so much for reading!! <3


	17. Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ll never escape this family.

Hisoka stared at the crowd and turned to Illumi, who was paler than usual, more casual, in dark blue denim and a geometric windbreaker. His black eyes were narrowed slightly, as they scanned each person, his expression cold. Hisoka had to admire the look, the straightforward ferocity of it; it was becoming evident that he would not be conducting any interviews, which did not bother him in the slightest. He started to ask how Illumi was planning to get rid of forty people, but his voice trailed off as a gray, smokey aura began pouring from Illumi’s skin.

Though he was not worried, an involuntary misery began to pool in Hisoka’s stomach; his eyes stung and his heart rattled. 

“Stand back,” Illumi whispered, reaching into the small black pouch between his shoulder blades. When he brought his hand down, round-based needles stuck from between each finger. 

The smokey aura picked up speed, blowing at Illumi’s hair and turning black close to his body. Caught in its cruel influence, Hisoka could barely move; managing even a few steps was like swimming against undertow. It was ice-cold; he’d been sweating in the desert heat, but now goosebumps and shiver were cropping up under his long sleeves.

Trancelike and seemingly unaware of Hisoka’s failed efforts to escape his Ren, Illumi dotted his tongue along the base of each needle, his saliva expanding, turning a viscous black, writhing around his fingers. 

“Illumi, what are you doing?” Hisoka gritted out, hugging himself as his teeth chattered. He’d managed three steps back, but the Ren was still whipping against him like a storm. 

Illumi sent a blank-eyed stare Hisoka’s way before turning back to the crowd, squaring his feet and raising his arm. A child with pigtails turned around and pointed with chubby fingers, an inaudible yell in her mouth. Groaning, Hisoka wrenched himself forward, tried to reach for Illumi’s arm, but the aura snapped the skin off his fingertip with a hiss. Hisoka curled back, sucking on his finger, and glancing wildly from Illumi to the mass of people he was about to attack.

Illumi’s eyebrows knit and his eyes flared. He seemed to hesitate for a split second, caught in the maw of the screaming child. But then, with a silent yell and a snap of his wrist, the needles flew forward, whistling as they multiplied in midair. Illumi looked away as each head jerked back at the ends of the needles. The child was hit in the face, the first to fall, toppling onto her back as blood dripped down her nose. Hisoka sucked his teeth as the entire crowd collapsed, one-by-one, like dominoes. 

Only when they all lay in a pile did Illumi’s aura dissipate, suctioning to his body in thin white Ten.

_I’ve lost count,_ he’d said in the tunnels. 

Illumi stood immoble and blank. 

“What did you do?” Hisoka asked, a cautious smile snaking onto his face as he closed the gap between them. No warmth radiated from Illumi’s body, and it trembled. “Are they…?” 

As soon as he spoke, the first person rose from the crowd, stiff and unsteady, jerking forward on straight legs. The rest followed suit until they moved in unison, coalescing into a single file line. The needles protruded grotesquely from the backs of their heads, blood leaking in ribbons from the punctures. The child was the only one who remained limp in the sand; the rest paid her no mind, stepping over her body to trail into the desert, limbs like marionettes.’ 

When the last body disappeared over the horizon, Illumi winced and dropped to his knees, clutching his head. Hisoka tore his eyes away from the child and knelt down.

“Hey,” he whispered, placing a cautious hand on Illumi’s heaving back. 

“She’s not dead,” Illumi mouthed, pressing the heel of his palm further into his head, body bearing against his knees. “None of them are dead--” He took a deep breath. “It’s… easier to kill them…” Another gasp.

“I wouldn’t have minded even if they were,” Hisoka stated honestly, rubbing slow circles on Illumi’s back. “I was only a bit shocked, and, of course, worried about the cleanup.” In truth, he’d been in awe of Illumi’s power.

“You’re sick,” Illumi coughed, but when he picked his head up, he was smiling weakly. 

Hisoka reached a hand up to cup the back of Illumi’s head, leaned in and kissed him, soft, fingertips tangled in his hair. Illumi folded to him, and hummed in the back of his throat as they pecked at each other like hummingbirds. Hisoka could feel Illumi’s heartbeat keeping time with his own. 

“So why didn’t you?” Hisoka asked when they pulled apart, all blush and glisten. 

“Why didn’t I what?” 

“Kill them all. If it’s easier?” 

“It’s what my family would’ve wanted me to do,” Illumi pressed two fingers to his lips, blinked slowly into a wider smile. 

“You’ve been smiling a lot recently,” Hisoka remarked, mystified. Illumi’s teeth were straight, his eyes crinkled in the corners. Hisoka noticed for the first time a tiny dimple under his lower lip, breaking the perfection of his features in the most endearing way possible. He was suddenly aware of the sand staining his light gray slacks, the new sweat darkening his underarms. 

Illumi cocked his head. “It’s simple. I smile when I have things to smile about. Just like anyone else.” 

“Mm.” Hisoka nodded, smoldering, put out both hands to help Illumi stand. 

If it hadn’t been for the sand, the blood splattered across her forehead and flecked in her open eyes the small girl, laying about ten meters from the first crater, could have been taking a nap. Her chest rose and fell, and her cheeks were still pink with heat. Illumi poked her side with his toe. 

“This was an accident. I guess it was too much for her. She’ll probably wake up in a few minutes and join the rest of them. I tried to send them toward the train station, but they’ll all be fine either way.” Hisoka didn’t know who Illumi was trying to reassure. 

He scanned the craters, their rippled surroundings, which were now marred and broken by the zombie procession. 

“So what are we looking for here?” 

“Anything, really. Body parts, pieces of clothing… The toenail I saw earlier means Silva was sloppy. But be careful--” Illumi nestled a hand in Hisoka’s as he trudged to the edge of the craters. “It could be some kind of trap. Don’t touch anything.” Hisoka squeezed his hand. Giddy warmth was warping Illumi’s warning in his mind.

_Now might be a good time to show Illumi what I’ve been working on._

Hisoka tapped Illumi’s shoulder, and when he exhaled, his aura was glowing pink around his palm, and then congealing. 

A small sound of surprise escaped Illumi’s lips as Hisoka took a breath down to the base of his stomach and made himself elastic. He may not be able to command crowds of people like Illumi, but he could at least do this. His aura spread and stretched like long fingers, climbing over the craters and picking up sand like tape, moving it aside. 

“It’s better this way, no?” He stepped closer, grinning. 

“Yes,” Illumi agreed, but he sounded wary.

Unearthed in the second crater was a golden fleck, a false tooth. Hisoka pointed it out with a crow of laughter. “Looks like your dad was killing mobsters! I bet I could pay my rent with that.” 

As he combed through, uncovering more teeth, a few coins, a metal button, Illumi relaxed, began snapping pictures on his phone. 

“This is a useful ability you’ve come up with,” he observed cheerfully. There was a small rustle behind them and Hisoka twisted for a moment, dropping his aura. Just as Illumi had said, the little girl was getting up, walking like an automaton in the footsteps of her compatriots.

Next to him, Illumi startled. Hisoka turned to see him staring at a glossy black corner, barely poking from the well of the furthest crater. “What is that?” Hisoka reached back out with his aura. 

Illumi grabbed his arm, yanked it back. “Hisoka don’t--” 

It was too late. Hisoka had already gripped black surface, and Illumi’s pull only broke the object from the ground: a cube, with some kind of insignia on the outside, suspended in midair.

Illumi screamed.

Hisoka met his eyes as a crackle of searing heat and light exploded across his vision, blowing everything away. And then, he was wrenched backward as another pain, like a bullet, dug into the back of his neck. His vision burst, broke into purple watercolor beads and rushed as his body twisted blindly through the air. He heard Illumi yell, a cracked, animal cry, and then he smacked against ground in a plume of dust. For a moment, the world was only warm ringing and dark flashback, a thousand whining lens flares. Hisoka groaned. A dull ache pulsed up his spine; he could not bend his limbs. Sharp grains of sand scratched at his cheek, spread into the corner of his mouth.

Hisoka’s vision returned in fuzzy paint-drips. He looked around from where he lay, trying to make sense of his surroundings. His head was pounding. His neck felt like it would twist off if he moved it. And everything was marred in gray: the wispy desert clouds, the sand. Several feet away, there was a fire, belching smoke around a hunched silhouette. It was almost beautiful, the bright orange in the dark, the curved figure. 

_An icon_ , he thought, _an angel_. 

_Is this death?_ It couldn’t be. He could still taste the earth’s bitter grit, feel the thick corrosion of smoke in his lungs.

He blinked and spit. _But what is that?_ The silhouette gathered shape, trembled, curled into itself. 

A barbed arrow of horror and realization shot through him, and with a heaving groan Hisoka pushed himself from the dirt and scrambled through the smoke toward Illumi’s prone figure. _He’s burning._ Hisoka’s arms and legs felt like they were being sawed off, but he dragged himself forward and forward, shouting Illumi’s name. The silhouette did not move, the air grew hotter and hotter.

As Hisoka drew closer, he began to realize that Illumi himself was not on fire, was simply kneeling before a hissing column of flames. It was furiously hot, so hot that Hisoka felt like his skin was melting. Half delirious, he forced himself to a stand, hooked his elbows under Illumi’s arms and pulled and pulled, away from the smoke, the heat, forgetting his pain as he stared down at Illumi’s face, which was covered in angry, red splotches, spreading from his undereye down his neck, edged with char. He was awake, blinking at Hisoka in slow motion.

Finally, the heat broke, and Hisoka let Illumi go, folding onto his knees in front of him. In the clearer air, Hisoka was stunned into silence by what he saw. In the distance, the fire was bigger than he’d been able to process, engulfing Silva’s craters, and the sand plane around him was strewn with rubble. There was no sign of the child. But Illumi. 

Illumi was upright, eyes cracked open, his breathing raspy; his brows and eyelashes were burned away, his hands, lips, his cheeks, and chest were warped and rippled; his jacket and undershirt were only reeking tatters hanging from his slumped shoulders. 

Hisoka found his voice, Illumi’s name, half-sobbed. He wanted to grab him, but there wasn’t a place to touch that wasn’t angry and oozing. 

“Needle…” Illumi’s voice was a shade of itself, a horrid gasp. “My back, Hiso--” he shuddered and blood pooled over his lips. “G-get… fuck..” He slumped forward and Hisoka lurched, fumbling for the charred pouch on his back, gathering up as many needles as he could and forcing them into Illumi’s limp red hands.

“Here,” Hisoka hiccuped. “Here, your needles, Illumi.”

And nothing.

“Your needles,” Hisoka insisted, louder, pushing them again into Illumi’s palm. And again, when there was no answer, he screamed, “Hey! Wake up!” He grabbed Illumi’s shoulders and shook them. The fabric fell away and his palms slicked with blood, nudged up pieces of broken skin. Illumi’s body only flopped, shredding in his grasp. “Illumi!” Tears blurred Hisoka’s vision, Illumi’s face merged into one angry, black-rimmed smudge. 

He fell still, Illumi’s face fell into his stomach.

“Illumi, Little Mouth…” Hisoka cried, hands finding the rough remnants of Illumi’s hair. Illumi’s breathing was a slow hiss, air leaving a balloon. He was dying and they were alone, surrounded by smoke, hideous crags, endless sand and sky. No matter how loudly Hisoka howled, no one would hear them. 

He heard Illumi’s voice, so low he could’ve imagined it.

 _God-power,_ it said.

“God...power…” he mumbled to himself, taking one of Illumi’s needles into his hand and searching for his aura. The needle was cold. _Please,_ he prayed, to god, to himself, to Illumi. _Please don’t…_

Warmth expanded in his grasp at once, and he moved without thinking, pressing the pointed end of the needle into the side of Illumi’s neck. The skin twitched around it, and the smell of rain overpowered the smoke. Illumi lifted his head, turned his eyes to Hisoka’s. 

A laugh gurgled in Hisoka’s chest and emerged a strangled cry. 

“Another,” Illumi breathed. His voice was hoarse, but it was his. “Arm.” Hisoka pushed a second needle into Illumi’s upper arm, and then another into his forearm. The needles in his pouch seemed to multiply endlessly, and Illumi directed him in hushed, one-word commands until his upper body was glistening with the rounded, metal ends. Behind metal, Illumi was grimacing, taking long, stuttering breaths. 

“Your aura,” he gritted out, and Hisoka dug his palms into Illumi’s stomach, still breathing out his aura, projecting it the way Illumi had in Hisoka’s office. Slowly, Illumi’s ruined skin stretched back over itself, sliding together like plastic casing, pale and new. It took what felt like hours, and by the end, they were both drenched in sweat and panting, but he revived. Even new hair sprouted from his scalp, spilling down his shoulders. A few times during the healing, Hisoka glanced behind him at the fire, which kept itself contained over the craters, and wondered what had happened. 

“You…” Illumi breathed out, when the needles finally dissolved into pale aura, when Hisoka finally took his hands from Illumi’s stomach. “You saved me.” And then, with a stronger voice, unmarred by smoke, “You idiot.” 

\---

The fire had been caused by a box of Silva’s aura, Illumi guessed, which burst when touched by Hisoka’s. A sort of Nen-activated bomb, a trap. _Maybe it was for me,_ he thought. _Silva must think I’ve lost my mind._

He explained as much to Hisoka as they lay, cooking in the sand, both too exhausted to move. He also explained how, as the aura exploded from the box, he had jammed a needle into Hisoka’s neck and propelled him out of harm’s way with a kind of haphazard hypnosis. “That’s why you were so disoriented at first. Ah, I could’ve saved myself too, I had enough time before the explosion, but I didn’t strategize, I left myself open. I’m rusty--” 

“It was my fault,” Hisoka cut in, brushing Illumi’s fingers with his. Illumi realized with a jolt that his healing ritual, made many times stronger by Hisoka’s Ren, had repaired his fingers. Hisoka rubbed along the smooth nails absently. There was a small, peaceful smile on his face. “I should’ve listened to you.” 

Illumi’s stomach jumped with low laughter, and Hisoka rolled onto his side, reaching across Illumi’s bare stomach to squeeze the dip of his waist. They were both covered in rusty sand, hair matted to their foreheads. Illumi had managed to throw his phone in the same arc he’d tossed Hisoka away from the fire, and it lay unscathed somewhere outside of the blast zone. And against all odds, sitting like a rock in the shredded remains of his pocket, was the Number 9. 

If he’d been able, Illumi would have put out the fire, which had dwindled to the cauldron of a single crater. Though the land was flat, Almagest’s elevation was rather high, and dry lightning caused brush fires often. It wouldn’t have been suspicious. “Silva planned this,” Illumi mumbled aloud. 

“Well yeah,” Hisoka replied. “Which one of us do you think he was trying to kill?” He said it like a joke, but Illumi’s chest went cold. _How did I miss this?_

He gripped Hisoka’s hand as his heart began to pound. “I don’t know.” 

Hisoka must have heard the worry in his voice. “Illumi, don’t. How could he have known we’d come here? One of those Orb people told me about it.” 

But Illumi barely heard him. He could only hear Silva’s voice in his mind, the day he’d left Kukuroo Mountain for what was supposed to be the final time. _You’ll never escape this family._ “We can’t beat them, Hisoka. It’s impossible. We can’t.”

“You’re dramatic, Little Mouth. We made it this far.”

“No!” Illumi almost shouted. If he’d had even an ounce more energy, he was sure tears would be burning his eyes. He reached into his pocket and white-knuckled the vial so tightly he thought it might burst. “I should’ve known from the day Netero knocked me out and shoved me into a body bag. Fuck, I should’ve known the _first_ time they had me chained to a hospital bed. They won’t kill me, they’ll just keep coming and coming until I’m completely broken. It’s what they’ve always done. I can’t win.”

To his surprise, Hisoka laughed, reached up with his hand and sent a burst of elastic aura into the air like a firework. The sun overhead was sparking in his eyes. “You have me now, though,” he said. “They didn’t count on that.” 

Illumi let go of the vial, and pressed his other hand to Hisoka’s, twining their fingers together in a multilayered tangle. He let Hisoka’s confidence comfort him, though he knew it was all false. _Hisoka has no clue what my family is capable of._

“I am more aware than you think I am.” Hisoka continued. “Take these, for example…” he reached into his sweat-soaked breast pocket and pulled out a dime bag with two red pills. Illumi’s mouth went dry. “I know what these do, and where you got them. What I _really_ would like to know now, is _why_.” 

\---

“Why are you so fucking pissed off?” Machi mumbled, rocking back and forth in the hotel desk chair. 

After the incident at The Cemetery, Chrollo had bailed out Machi, Feitan, and Phinks, and in an icy phone call from his new house arrest location on Fire Island, Netero had assured him that their charges would be dropped. The Phantoms had split up and skipped town, nonetheless. Chrollo and Machi, for their part, were staying at a hotel somewhere in the middle of nowhere while they figured out what to do next.

“ _Because,_ ” Chrollo hissed, staring down at “Modern Magicks,” which he’d found easily at some bookstore chain. He was on one of the plush beds, sitting under the blankets, atop a pillow. “I’m being played.” When he wasn’t politicking, Chrollo’s voice was sharper, higher-pitched. 

“Who cares?” Machi spun in a circle, fiddling with the turquoise pom-pom on the drawstring of her sleeveless hoodie. “He’s wiring you cash. He got us out of jail. And until a few days ago, he was helping you with that Zoldyck kid.” 

“Illu-- the Zoldyck brat wasn’t part of _my_ plan. That was all Silva. And it’s not just Netero, it’s _everyone_.” Machi snickered and Chrollo turned the page so violently it almost ripped. “Even fucking _Hisoka_ , somehow.” Hisoka, perhaps more than anyone. Chrollo would never be able to wipe the memory of his face in the doorway, the fading smile when he realized that ‘Illumi’ was not running into his arms. His harried energy in the kitchen, and the way he’d reached for Illumi’s fingers, full of worry. ‘My’ Illumi, he’d said. Chrollo’s heart felt like a lit fuse. 

“Okay?” said Machi. “So what are we going to do about it?” 

Chrollo shut Modern Magicks. Hisoka hadn’t been lying about ‘Nen’ -- he’d seen Illumi use it, and he’d found it in the book. Netero had probably thought it hilarious to tell Chrollo that he was some kind of dime-a-dozen _occult magician,_ all the while staking his academic career on the very concept he was hiding. _Arrogant old fuck._

And then, there was the matter of Illumi Zoldyck and his empty black eyes, his naivety, and his healing needles. As was his ability, his _Nen,_ Chrollo had made Illumi a contract drug, one whose strength would call for him, beg to be taken, and the thought was making Chrollo’s skin crawl. _It’s a stupid way out. It’s_ their _way out, not mine. Why should I give Hisoka even more victims, even in death?_

But Chrollo, as he always did, had a backup. 

He also had his spellbook, and now, he could learn how to use it properly. He wondered if Illumi also had one, if he could do more than just heal. _Netero said he wouldn’t kill, though. Not unless we made him._

He met Machi’s bright blue stare. “I need you to make a call, actually.”

Machi groaned. “Why me?” 

“It’ll be easy, okay. I just need you to call the Zoldyck Fund main line, and ask for the Paper Doll. Try to sound… I don’t know, foreign or something. And don’t take no for an answer.” 

Machi’s lip curled. “You want to involve _more_ Zoldycks? Isn’t that how you got into this mess in the first place?” 

Chrollo grinned, the color returning to his face. “This one will be different, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry to the person i promised that chapter 17 would be smut. i lied to u, and to myself, and wrote a chapter that made me cry instead. 
> 
> there was some chrollo tho! :~) 
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading. i love u all. please tell me what u think in the comments.
> 
> <3 <3


	18. Meringue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We just met this year,” Illumi replied, ruffling Hisoka’s hair absently. “It’s been… nice.” He found that he meant it, even if it was only a fraction of the truth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Tiana!

_Are we really doing this now?_

“I don’t think you understand,” Illumi said, through gritted teeth. His fleeting sense of comfort disappeared with the mischievous gleam in Hisoka’s eye. _How could he be like this now?_ “My father is trying to kill you.” Illumi’s voice broke when he said it, as waves of realization washed over him. Everything finally made sense-- Netero, Killua, even the re-emergence of Melas Oneiros. He’d been distracted by Chrollo, the fantasies and oddities, that he hadn’t seen what was sitting in front of him the entire time. What had been sitting in front of him, in fact, for the five years he’d been at Yorknew. The only things which had kept him from his fate thus far were his addictions and neuroses, his shocking maladaptation to university life. _It wasn’t supposed to be Silva who killed him, it was supposed to be me._

 _And instead…_ He frowned even deeper, caught by Hisoka’s twinkling gaze, his canine teeth, stomach twisting over a threatening arousal. 

_No, there’s still something that doesn’t make sense._

“I _know_ that,” Hisoka replied, casual as ever. “And there’s more. But first you have to tell me, why do you have these pills?” 

Illumi blinked. _Oh._ “Chrollo gave them to me.” He could’ve screamed. 

“Exactly,” Hisoka said. “And did he give you a reason?” 

_Oh._ “He said I could use them to ensnare you.” 

“Good lord,” Hisoka huffed, chuckling. “He is an even bigger fool than I thought. I guess your father wasn’t doing the bang-up job he wanted so he decided to take matters into his own hands.” He shook the pills again as Illumi’s head spun. “In Chrollo’s mind, _these_ are what turned the tide for our relationship. They changed me, he said. I became ruthless and pleasure-seeking. But I was always that, and so was he. He just found his success earlier.”

Illumi wrenched himself to a seat, pressing the heels of his palm into his forehead. He felt like laughing and crying at the same time. “They were all working together,” he whispered. 

“Yeah,” Hisoka groaned as he rose in turn. “Isn’t that pathetic? Chrollo can even steal other peoples’ Nen somehow. I know he has your mother’s, and one called Glamour that can turn him into anything in the eyes of an observer, provided they don’t know about it. Who knows how long he’s been lurking at the university in disguise.”

“Killua…” Illumi sighed. _That’s why I couldn’t sense his presence._ It was a mixture of relief and horror, embarrassment that he didn’t realize sooner. _Chrollo was even there that night. He probably followed me, watched me unravel. No wonder he thinks I’m naive._

“What?” Hisoka asked, pulling Illumi against him. The sun seemed to burn now, just as hot as the fire had. 

Illumi sighed again, more raggedly, explaining in a soft voice what had happened the night after he’d met Hisoka. How he’d thought it had just been his family, up to their usual cruelty. “I did suspect you, at first. Sort of,” he admitted. “But I don’t think my family expected you to--”

“Fall in love?” 

Illumi’s heart stopped. _Spill your secrets,_ he was going to say. Hisoka reached out to pinch Illumi’s chin, rubbing his thumb along his jaw. His face looked feverish as he smiled through the sheen of sweat on his cheeks. Illumi’s heart stuttered to a pound, his head spun. He opened his mouth to respond, and closed it.

“Just kidding,” Hisoka sang, but he frowned, dropping his hand from Illumi’s face and pecking him softly on the cheek. “Maybe.” 

_I’ll save that for later._ Illumi swallowed his heartbeat, brought his mind back to the matter at hand. It was true that his parents had probably not expected his peculiar friendship with Hisoka. They probably got most of their information about him from Chrollo and Netero, who knew him as fickle and manipulative at best, a remorseless betrayer at worst. _A perfect target for our son,_ they must have thought. _They destroyed my trust, and bet on my instability._ It made sense. He clawed at his stomach, trying to scoop out the horror swimming there. _Would it have worked?_ If he hadn’t gone to The Cemetery that night, Hisoka might already be dead. 

Only Chrollo had been suspicious of their relationship. He’d been messier, but he’d understood Illumi more than Hisoka was giving him credit for. There was also the matter of--

“Why so glum?” Hisoka whined. “We figured everything out!” 

“But now my dad is mad,” Illumi mumbled. “And that’s worse.” Even with Hisoka’s revelations, they were still in the same place. If the Zoldycks had gotten what they wanted, Hisoka’s death would’ve been quiet, by needle. _But Silva…_ Illumi shivered, for a moment flickering past the thought of ending Hisoka himself, as a mercy, but it made him almost as sick as Hisoka's new fate.

Nothing would stop his father now. The flash bomb had been Nen activated, one of Milluki’s inventions, something Silva knew Illumi would recognize. It was both an assassination attempt and a test. A trap designed specifically for a Hisoka who had discovered his Nen. 

_And I was the one who taught him._ Illumi’s stomach gurgled, and his eyes searched for something to fix on besides Hisoka’s pleading gaze. _Ah._ He pawed at the baggie of pills and looked up. 

_I have nothing to lose_ , he supposed.

“So, was Chrollo right?” he asked, pinching the baggy and holding it up. 

“About…?” Hisoka was staring at him, red from the heat and his joke confession. 

“Will these ensnare you?” With a surge of confidence and energy, Illumi climbed to crawl onto Hisoka’s lap, straddling his hips, hooking one arm around his neck. Hisoka made an amused sound, halfway between a moan and a laugh. He took the baggy from Illumi’s fingers and eyed it.

“Oh, it’s far too late for that, Little Mouth. And these…” he sighed, suddenly serious, brow sitting heavy in a way Illumi had never seen it. “I thought I would want them again someday, and even searched for some after Chrollo attacked us with your mother’s Nen. But in the end, it was dreaming of you which saved me from my terror, made me safe again.” His eyes were soft and jeweled, drinking in Illumi’s eyes, his lips, his bare chest. He rocked forward, parting Illumi’s lips with a soft kiss, a swipe of tongue and damp. His mouth was warm; Illumi shivered when he pulled away, one splayed hand over his shoulder blade, holding him in place. Breaking eye contact to examine the pills, Hisoka seemed to consider them for a moment before pinching them between his fingers, squeezing until the capsules burst. 

“I don’t need you to become a god. I want you as you are.” Illumi’s brows knit as Hisoka peeled the baggy apart, dumping the broken pills, powder and cracked shell, into the sand. Illumi stared down at the white spot on the ground for only a moment before a gust of wind picked it up and blew it away. The day seemed to glow brighter, hotter. The only sound was the hollow howl of desert wind. 

Hisoka’s smile returned, wobbly as his hair was whipped back by the gust, peppered with kernels of sand. “Let’s go back, Illumi. Enjoy the apartment while we still can. I’ll call my driver to see if he knows someone discreet who can give us a ride back to the city.” 

Illumi nodded, wrapping his other arm around Hisoka’s neck. He was still terrified. If he let go, his hands would shake. But excitement glimmered alongside terror. He’d faced Silva before: for nineteen years, he’d faced Silva every day-- shouting, whipping, tearing at each imperfection he had. Then, though, he’d been alone. 

“Thank you, Hisoka,” Illumi whispered, drawing close enough that their foreheads touched. “In spite of everything, I’m glad I was able to meet you.” 

Surprise bloomed and lingered on Hisoka’s face, looking as beautiful and foreign as fear. It was soon replaced by his snake’s smile. “Why are you thanking me? Without you, I’d have been dead by your father’s hands weeks ago.” 

Illumi smothered Hisoka’s smile in kisses, quick as darts, coaxing out laughs and sighs. He knew one thing for sure. For as long as he was able to protect him, Hisoka would not leave his sight. Illumi was no match for Silva, but he wasn’t going to grant his father the satisfaction of surrender. As he moved against Hisoka, the vial in his pocket swung and tapped against his thigh. 

Illumi and Hisoka had to walk out to the main road to meet the driver, who they could already see as a small black smudge in the distance. 

“Why didn’t Chrollo just try to kill you himself?” Illumi chirped. The idea crossed his mind as he’d gone to retrieve his phone, and he voiced it as they arrived, looking quite bedraggled, at the roadside. Illumi had made peace with the fact that he was going to slide into a total stranger’s back seat in jeans and tatters, streaked in dirt and tears. 

Hisoka stretched. The sweat stains under his arms extended to his waistband. “Simple. He’s a coward.” He laughed to himself. “Oh, I didn’t tell you…” 

The drive back to Yorknew was three hours. After Hisoka detailed how Chrollo had come to his apartment disguised as Illumi with Glamour, he leaned into the front seat and spun a ridiculous tale of being nearly struck by dry lightning, to which the driver nodded along, half-listening. Illumi smiled to himself at Hisoka’s wild gesticulations, the white lies spilling easily from his mouth. “And that’s why my friend here looks like I lit him on fire!” 

_Nevermind that my skin is completely fine._ The driver wasn’t even looking. There was nothing for Illumi to be nervous about.

Hisoka slumped back into his seat, shot Illumi a rakish grin, and then blinked. “I’m tired…” In seconds, he was lolling over Illumi’s shoulder, and in minutes, he was asleep. The driver turned on a quiet piano concerto and Illumi let his cheek fall onto the top of Hisoka’s head. His hair was gritty from laying in the sand-- the driver had given them a dismayed once-over when he saw how filthy they were -- but it was Hisoka’s hair, and he scarcely minded.

Illumi wondered what Chrollo had seen in Hisoka’s face when he’d arrived, disguised. 

Swollen raindrops began hitting the car window as they drove, out of the desert, over a plain of scrubby grass, through sleepy, wooden towns. Unlike usual, Illumi felt no compulsion to scroll through his phone. Instead, he counted the raindrops until they became too numerous, tried to hum along with the piano. He felt like a child, hugging Hisoka’s sleeping form, leaning on it, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing. Every so often, the driver would glance into the rearview at them, the ghost of a smile on his face. 

“How long have you been together?” the driver asked, when Illumi accidentally met his eye. And then he coughed. “Sorry, that was forward." Another pause. "Ah... I’m gay myself. It makes me happy to see couples doing well. That’s why I let you into my car even though you’re filthy.” 

“We just met this year,” Illumi replied, ruffling Hisoka’s hair absently. “It’s been… nice.” He found that he meant it, even if it was only a fraction of the truth. 

The driver nodded and his eyes slid back to the road. Illumi felt strangely warm.

They reached Yorknew at around four in the afternoon; the rain had stopped, but the storm fog circled in wisps around the skyscrapers. 

Illumi shook Hisoka awake as they pulled into his apartment garage, already mourning the simulated peace. But even the parking garage felt quiet, free of any significant aura. Illumi had stayed alert the entire ride, wary of the possibility that someone might be waiting for them upon their return. When he climbed out, shivering slightly, he looked around, only feeling ordinary people in their apartments, people on the street; no one as dangerous as Chrollo or Silva. Drowsy and unaware of Illumi’s preoccupations, Hisoka handed a wad of cash to the driver, smiled and waved as the car disappeared. 

“Here we are!” Hisoka said cheerily and yawned. “The heat made me exhausted.” 

“Here we are,” Illumi replied. It felt surreal to be back in the city after what they’d seen that afternoon. “It seems like my father didn’t follow us here.”

“Well, that’s good.” Hisoka took Illumi’s hand and started toward the elevator. “Do we have a plan?” 

“I need to have a shower. And then, we can talk.” 

\---

They made it as far as the kitchen. 

Dragging Illumi with him, Hisoka sat up onto the island counter, wrapped his legs around Illumi’s waist and curled over him. When Illumi looked up, shock and glisten in his eyes, sunburn and blush warm on his cheeks, Hisoka could have burst into tears, song, laughter. Instead, he gathered Illumi’s windblown hair and tugged him down, kissing him from above as Illumi unbuttoned Hisoka’s shirt with dutiful fingers.

“Hisoka…” Illumi mumbled into Hisoka’s mouth, kissing back desperately and giving a nearly-silent yelp when Hisoka pulled on a tangle, scooted to the very edge of the counter so that his erection pressed against Illumi’s stomach. 

Illumi went slack against him, supported only by the grip of Hisoka’s thighs around his waist as Hisoka turned his head to the side to expose his neck, and ran his mouth down to Illumi’s collarbone, nipping at the sensitive flesh. Illumi’s throat bobbed over hiccups and moans; he shed the remains of his windbreaker and dropped it on the floor. 

“Are you hard?” Hisoka whispered before returning to Illumi’s mouth for a sloppy kiss. Sighing, Illumi ground up against him, and Hisoka twisted both of Illumi’s nipples, which had pearled under the airconditioning. Illumi hissed, scrunching his nose, a moan at the back of his throat..

“Are you hard, Illumi?” Hisoka asked again, just as gently, a puff of breath in Illumi’s ear.

“Yeah…” Illumi blinked, shifting bashfully. 

“Good.” Hisoka pulled away, hovered his hands, forcing Illumi to rock back onto his heels and support his own weight. 

“Show me, then.”

Illumi, looking mutedly disappointed at Hisoka’s withdrawal, froze, eyes travelling down to his jeans. Hisoka leaned forward and popped the button. “Come on, show me. You look beautiful,” he grinned. Illumi hesitated for a few more seconds, as if he was mulling over how to get his pants apart. 

Hisoka waited patiently, fire travelling from his belly to his throat as Illumi’s stuttering fingers finally worked his zipper down and revealed his full erection, slender and pink-tipped, leaning against Illumi’s careful fingers. 

Hisoka sat back and watched as Illumi’s jeans slipped down over his hips, leaving him stark naked in the fluorescent kitchen. His hair was tangled over one shoulder, head turned bashfully to the side, exposing the tendons and elegant curve of his neck, dramatically shadowed in the harsh lighting. His chest, pinched pink, his stomach, jumping and tensing with nerves. And his cock, balanced in his half-open palm. He could’ve been sculpted like this, immortalized as he would be in Hisoka’s mind. 

“Hisoka,” Illumi breathed out, still holding himself tenderly, irises jumping to meet Hisoka’s gaze. 

“Touch yourself,” Hisoka said lightly, running the heel of his palm over his own erection, which smarted against his linen slacks. “I keep lube in the drawer right behind you.” 

A tiny smile played over Illumi’s mouth, a moment of, _of course you do,_ as he pivoted and opened the drawer, which was teeming with packets of lube. When he faced Hisoka again, he was biting the edge of a silver pouch. Something about watching him tear it, the tendons clenching in his jaw and throat, sent a punch of arousal to the pit of Hisoka’s gut; he suppressed a moan. Illumi grinned, a shard of foil still shining between his teeth. 

“You okay?” he teased, spitting the foil out, sounding a bit winded. 

Hisoka nodded with a warbling laugh. “Keep going.” 

With a contemplative moan, Illumi examined himself, sliding a slick hand up his length. He lingered at the tip and met Hisoka’s eye as he flicked his thumb over the slit, pushing at a bead of precum. He pumped back down again, and up, tongue coming between his teeth, eyes flickering from his erection to Hisoka’s face, as if he did not want to miss either sight.

“Good,” Hisoka breathed, spreading his legs wider and leaning into his thighs as Illumi worked. There was so much for Hisoka to admire, from Illumi’s deft fingers, to the muscles clenching in his legs, in his heaving chest, the expression on his face, caught between pleasure and concentration: a bit lip, a furrowed brow, burning cheeks. And Illumi’s sounds, mewling breaths stuck like syrup in his throat. Hisoka could have watched him like this, in his kitchen, for hours, longing. 

Catching his own breath, Hisoka noticed the pool of dampness between his legs and he rolled his shoulders to slip out of his shirt. Illumi’s attention caught, his eyes traced hungrily over Hisoka’s chest, and lower, to his straining erection. 

“What?” Hisoka asked coyly, canting his hips to display his arousal. 

“I…” Illumi huffed, swallowing and running his fingers up his shaft, coaxing out his own shudder. “ _God.”_

He turned his eyes to the ceiling as he spoke. “I want to fuck you, Hisoka.” 

Anticipation rippling, Hisoka raised his eyebrows. “Oh?” 

_A pleasant surprise._ He undid the clasp on his pants and brought his feet up to the counter, ignoring the twinge of guilt when he realized that the last person who’d fucked him was Pariston. “How do you want me?” 

Without answering, Illumi brought his eyes back down and stepped forward, pulling Hisoka’s pants the rest of the way off and slipping Hisoka’s cock from his briefs. Hisoka moaned quietly at Illumi’s touch. With a calm smile, Illumi took one more step, rose to the balls of his feet so that they were hip-to-hip, and took both of their cocks into the same slick, nervous hand. 

“I want to see your face when I put it in you,” Illumi mumbled, lips barely moving as his eyelids fluttered.

“Yes,” Hisoka sighed, leaning into the warmth of Illumi’s grip. “Okay.” 

Illumi brought his hand up and down their lengths until Hisoka was practically digging his fingers into the marble. He rolled his hips, fucking up against Illumi’s cock, and Illumi sighed as a new trail of precum dripped down his shaft. Hisoka found a rhythm against him, thrusting gently until Illumi could barely keep his hold over the friction. Hisoka had to fix his gaze on a lamp in the living room to calm the rush of ecstasy he felt when Illumi slumped against the counter, cock twitching. 

“Mmph, Hisoka,” he bit, squeezing his eyes and biting his lip, hips still moving. “Ah, I-I think…” his words pared off and he shook his head. Suddenly feeling a rush of anxiety, Hisoka stilled, reached forward and gripped Illumi’s shoulders. 

“What is it? Are you okay?” He gave Illumi an encouraging shake, but Illumi stayed slack, face twisted up, as if he were in pain. They stayed like that for a moment and Illumi’s breathing slowed down. Hisoka closed his eyes and thought of Illumi in his passenger’s seat, losing himself in a sweet babble of nerves. 

A final deep breath. “I’m okay,” Illumi relaxed, loosened his shoulders and reached behind him to pop the drawer open, fumbling until he found another packet of lube. “I just… ah…” He squeezed the gel over both hands and returned to Hisoka’s split legs, assuming the same position as before. His hand was cool as he pressed himself against Hisoka, and Hisoka shivered, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I’m okay.” 

“Oh--” Illumi slicked his hand up and down, and Hisoka sighed raggedly, unable to form the words he meant to say. “W-we…” He couldn’t help matching Illumi’s hand with his own, adding more squeeze and friction to each stroke. “We don’t have--” the words caught in his throat as Illumi snaked his free hand down between Hisoka's legs, pressing his middle finger to Hisoka’s entrance.

“No,” Illumi insisted, his expression darkening. “I want to.” His nose twitched. “Do you want to?” 

He knew the answer the moment Hisoka’s hand fell still. “Y--” 

Illumi pushed his finger inside, down to the knuckle, and Hisoka cried out the rest of the syllable, pressing his palms to the counter. Illumi surged up, pulsing in and out, caught Hisoka’s cries with wet kisses. When Hisoka was loose enough, Illumi added a second finger, resumed lazily stroking their cocks-- just enough to keep Hisoka’s hips rolling, but not enough to stoke an orgasm.

At the third finger, Hisoka hissed at the burn, which climbed and splintered white hot through his stomach. Gasping and fucking himself on Illumi’s fingers, Hisoka watched through bleary, half-lidded eyes as Illumi’s expression shifted from pale nervousness to pride, eyes sparkling as Hisoka became more and more desperate. 

Charmed, Hisoka would’ve grinned sarcastically had he not been painfully hard, half-mad with desire. “Oh god, Illumi, _please,_ ” Hisoka finally begged, when Illumi began scissoring his fingers apart and curling against his prostate. 

“Ready?” Illumi whispered pleasantly, shooting Hisoka an angelic look, pulling his cock into his hand and flattening it against Hisoka’s entrance. 

“Yeah.” 

“You sure?” Illumi’s voice was dripping with faux sweetness. _A fucking devil._

“Yes, Illumi, god--”

His vision burst and he let his head fall back as Illumi pushed inside, a low moan spilling from his lips like a prayer. Illumi sighed, going red from his cheeks to his chest, eyes fluttering shut.

“Wait, Illumi.” Hisoka gritted out, pulsing around Illumi’s cock, placing a trembling hand on Illumi’s chest. Illumi halted, half-inside. 

“What’s up?” When he opened them, Illumi’s eyes were wet, and his body was shaking faintly, as if it was difficult to stop himself from moving. 

“Keep your eyes open,” Hisoka said. “You said you wanted to see.” 

Illumi’s eyes widened and he cursed, grabbing Hisoka’s shoulders and thrusting roughly, bottoming out at once. Hisoka cried out, tightening around the pain, stomach clenching. Their eyes locked together, sweat dripped down Illumi’s nose and fell onto Hisoka’s skin. Illumi stayed still, letting Hisoka squirm on his cock as his muscles adjusted. “Hisoka,” he gasped, when Hisoka relaxed. “Y-you...feel good. ” He pulled out, and when he pushed inside again, the pain had turned to a sharp, cloying pleasure.

“Yeah,” Hisoka agreed, warmth pooling in his chest. Illumi quickened his pace, and Hisoka keened as his insides molded to Illumi’s shape. He stroked his cock as Illumi thrusted, angling his hips so that Illumi pounded deeper into him, pulsing against his prostate. 

“Fuck, Illumi...” Hisoka felt himself getting closer. 

Illumi mewled at the sound of Hisoka’s voice, his grip on Hisoka’s shoulders tightening. Hisoka noticed that Illumi’s breathing was becoming more labored, as he strained to keep his head up, to keep his eyes on Hisoka’s face. _This should…_

Groaning, Hisoka reached around with both hands to grab the backs of Illumi’s knees, angling his hips forward and sliding backward on the counter as he hiked Illumi up to kneel in front of him, still inside. Then, wincing at the pressure, Hisoka turned both their bodies, laid Illumi down on the counter and rocked on top of him, wincing as he bore down, spread further. When he settled, Illumi was so deep inside him that he doubled over, let out a sob, one hand pressed into Illumi’s chest, the other pillowing Illumi’s head. Illumi was gasping, hips stuttering. 

“Better?” Hisoka forced out.

Illumi nodded wordlessly, wide-eyed and open mouthed. Hisoka bent to kiss him, straightened up and rolled his hips, spreading his knees and watching Illumi’s face as he began to move, circling so that Illumi’s cock curved into him, making his vision go white.

Hisoka rode Illumi’s cock until his legs ached and they were both near tears, mumbling jumbled syllables, each others’ names. When Hisoka would lean down to press a kiss to Illumi’s lips, the pressure was almost too much to bear; his own cock was weeping onto Illumi’s stomach, flicking beads onto his chest. 

“Hisoka,” Illumi panted, absently swiping at the precum and dipping his fingers into his mouth, sucking as he whined. Hisoka had never seen anyone so beautiful. He ran his fingers affectionately over Illumi’s cheeks, feeling a tear of sheer emotion squeeze from the corner of his eye. 

“Hisoka, I’m--” Illumi lisped over his fingers, arched his back, and rocked. Hisoka cursed, dug his nails into Illumi’s collarbone. He could feel his orgasm tingling, sparking through his body. 

“I’m gonna come…” Illumi cried, losing control of his movements as Hisoka pulled off of him.

Illumi burst over his belly and chest, gasping and sighing Hisoka’s name over and over again, fingers at the corner of his lips. Watching him through tear-blurred eyes, Hisoka stroked himself a few times, scooting up to come over Illumi’s chin, onto his tongue and cheeks. 

They stayed like that, chests heaving, blinking tears from their eyes.

“Fuck,” Hisoka gasped, as his mind finally cleared. “I made a mess of you.” Illumi was splattered in come, from his belly button to the bridge of his nose. His lips trembled, and for a moment Hisoka thought he might burst into tears, but instead he grinned and a laugh bubbled from his chest like a spring, free and beautiful. 

“You did,” Illumi agreed through giggles. “Are you going to clean me up again?” 

Hisoka reached to thumb some of the come off Illumi’s cheek, brought it to his lips with a twisted grin.

Illumi fell into another rash of laughter, slung a few garbled insults, _gross, disgusting_. Hisoka couldn’t stop himself from joining in, shaking his head and reaching for Illumi’s fingers, holding them between his own. As he gathered his wits, Hisoka remembered something-- a new memory that seemed years old. “You know what, Little Mouth?”

“What?” Illumi barely seemed himself in his glee. 

“Before I die, I need to teach you how to make a chocolate meringue.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah............. 
> 
> more plot (and chrollo lol) next time! i needed to give hisoillu a little break they deserve it at this point.
> 
> i nearly went insane writing this chapter; i scrapped and rewrote the first half twice, agonized for countless hours. im sorry the update was so slow & i hope it wasn't confusing or underwhelming!!!!!! ive been worrying about the 'reveal' of the 'mystery' for so long so i hope it feels satisfying and makes sense. jsiofjsdkfljser
> 
> again, thank u so much for reading. ily all and am absolutely floored sometimes when i read your comments and thoughts. pls come befriend me on twitter @antkidu :-)
> 
> (ps: i've written 2 other hisoillu oneshots that are unrelated to this fic- if u like this one, u might like those as well!)


	19. Cacophony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old idol, a young idol, and St. Peter find you at a crossroads, a heretic clinging to Dionysus.

Chrollo watched Kalluto Zoldyck arrive in a black limousine. When he stepped out into the tepid afternoon, the youngest and most cruel of the Zoldyck assassins shielded his eyes and sniffed as he opened a parasol above his head. He looked around, violet gaze scanning the street until he saw Chrollo, lounging across from Machi at a wrought-iron table under the awning of an Italian cafe. The town Chrollo had called him to was a tiny outpost near the coast of Yorbia.

“All the better to meet in the middle of nowhere,” Kalluto had said, once Chrollo had taken the phone from Machi and revealed his identity. “My father is not a stupid man.”

“He’s small,” Machi mouthed conspicuously, eyeing Kalluto, who’d correctly identified his client and was heading down the cobbled walk. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Chrollo waved her away, standing up to greet his new employ. Machi was right. Kalluto was small. But in the weeks after Chrollo had hired Silva Zoldyck to kill Hisoka, Netero had made him memorize scores of information about each member of the Zoldyck family-- Silva, Kikyo, and all five of the Zoldyck children. “It never hurts to know who you’re working with,” the old man had said with a darkly twinkling eye. “You never know when you might need them.” Of course, Chrollo knew that Netero had referred to Glamour, then, but his words had never rang more true than in this moment. 

Kalluto, Chrollo knew, may have resembled his moniker, Paper Doll, but he was far from it. Chrollo had watched the child flay targets from meters away and turn from their shredded, screaming bodies without batting an eye. “People hire The Paper Doll for mutilation,” Netero told him. “Some say he’s more brutal than Silva. At least Silva kills quickly… most of the time.”

Chrollo had hired Silva to give Hisoka a slow death, a death planned over years. Netero had offered to help.

And from Netero’s help, Chrollo knew that Kalluto was the least loyal of the Zoldycks. “Even Illumi the prodigal respects the family in his fear of them,” Netero had had a look of concern. “And Killua won’t kill, but he comes home for holidays. But Kalluto… Kalluto was not born with any fear or sense of duty. I don’t think the Zoldyck parents quite know what to do with him.” Perhaps this was something, Chrollo considered in hindsight, that Netero had planned to exploit. 

But Netero had his hands tied. Now, it was Chrollo who’d called Silva, worked out a special deal for Hisoka’s demise. All he had to do was hide his betrayal until the last possible second. In the meantime, he hoped Kalluto would not fail him.

\---

The room was dark. Illumi’s heartbeat echoed in his ears, growing louder and louder with every pulse. There was a heavy pressure on his chest, and he could only think of how to move his eyes. As he looked around, perfectly still, shapes began to fade into view: just shadows, blocks, at first, but soon a metal dresser with a knife gleaming atop it; a spare mirror reflecting darkness. The hallway light was on, but he couldn’t feel anyone around. Three skinny rectangles of light filtered in through the barred peephole at the top of the door. _This seems…_ his thoughts were blurry but with a start, he realized where he was: a high-class prison cell, his bedroom at the Zoldyck estate. 

_Shit._ Illumi’s thoughts began to rush past each other, blurry with sleep; his heartbeat churned up nausea; when he tried to move, he only thrashed impotently, his skin pulling like it was sutured to the bedsheets. He struggled on with silent gasps, tried to scream, but nothing came out. 

_Have I been drugged?_

Suddenly Illumi felt a heavy aura, powerful enough to make his ears ring. It smelled of metal and bile. _Silva._ He stared forward, squinting through the bars. And then, from the darkness, two blue eyes blinked into his vision and the lights snuffed. Silva’s eyes, bright blue and glowing, floated, disembodied in the darkness. They were all Illumi could see, staring him down until he stopped struggling, laid still with his eyes squeezed shut. The door rattled in its frame, and a booming voice said-- 

“Illumi.”

Illumi shuddered awake. His mouth was open, but he wasn’t screaming. He was on Hisoka’s couch, in the living room, one foot hanging off the side and brushing the floor. Sweat was pooling on his forehead and at his back.

Hisoka was standing over him in a robe and glasses, a pen in his hand. As Illumi trembled through the last waves of terror, Hisoka picked up Illumi’s foot and rested it back on the cushion, sitting down at the crook of his waist. 

“Fuck,” Illumi breathed as his memories faded in. He’d been laying with his head on the arm of the couch, staring down Hisoka’s hallway at the door. His mouth had been sweet with the sugar of the meringues Hisoka had helped him make. Now, the flavor had soured. 

Behind him, the sky was purple with dusk, heavy with the residue of the rain-- Hisoka had been concerned about the weather as they baked, had hauled some dehumidifiers from a supply closet and set them up on the counters. “Otherwise they’ll be marshmallows instead,” he’d explained, guiding Illumi’s arms as he folded the light batter. 

Illumi’s hair was still damp from the shower he’d taken before that, swaying under the water, leaning against Hisoka’s chest. The memories felt fake, trapped inside a glass case in Illumi’s mind. _I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep._

Illumi snaked around Hisoka and pushed himself to a seat. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his knees up to his chin. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“I survived, didn’t I? And I made dinner. And I stole your phone and started drafting the paper for the conference. Today was actually pretty good…” he went on, detailing what he’d written, what he’d cooked. 

Anxiety curled in Illumi’s stomach. _How is he still talking about the conference?_

“Life has to continue, Illumi,” Hisoka interrupted himself to say, as he peered intently at Illumi’s twisted expression. “Otherwise we’ll drive ourselves mad. If there’s no way to beat Silva, as you seem to think, we might as well try to enjoy our final moments together.” He gave a cynical smile, showing the tops of teeth, pink gums. 

An ache in his chest, Illumi recalled the conversation they’d had as the meringues were baking. 

Hisoka had been wearing sweat shorts and oven mitts, leaning on the counter with his arms crossed. His collarbones had looked especially like a cherub’s bow. “You don’t have a plan, Illumi?” 

“Plans are futile against my father. Especially now. Even if we did manage to make one, he has my mother, my brothers, Chrollo, even Netero still on his side. We’d be like schoolchildren plotting against the mafia.” This wasn’t quite true-- Illumi did have a plan. Just not one he was willing to share with Hisoka. 

To Illumi’s surprise, Hisoka didn’t press, only shrugged and chuckled. “Well then, that’s that, I suppose.” He peeled off his oven mitts and circled Illumi’s waste, rocking him to and fro. “Let’s dance.” 

As the space warmed, filled with the smell of sweet cocoa, Hisoka hummed a waltz and danced Illumi in clumsy circles around the kitchen. “I had a dream where we did this,” he breathed into Illumi’s neck. “And my apartment fell apart around us and I didn’t care.” 

When the timer for the meringues beeped, Illumi jumped. The digital clock on Hisoka’s microwave said six o’ six. He shuddered at the image of Silva crashing into the kitchen and blasting Hisoka inside out. Hisoka gave Illumi another twirl and glided back to open the oven. 

“Ah, they’re perfect. I’ll make coffee.” 

Now, on the couch, Illumi gave Hisoka an owlish stare. “You’re not scared? Not even a little bit?” 

Humming contemplatively, Hisoka dropped his head onto Illumi’s lap, shifted onto his back and crossed his knees. His hair parted like a curtain, and his face was shadowed with the slowly-rotating arms of the living room fan. Illumi reached down to trace along his hairline. 

“The way I see it, it’s a wonder I’ve survived this long. Death by a secret magic society hired by my jilted lover seems a fitting way to go.” 

Illumi clenched his teeth as his stomach dropped. “But--” he started to say. 

Hisoka shushed him, bringing a finger to Illumi’s lips. “Nothing is certain, Illumi. Except that the curry I made is getting cold.” 

Illumi’s eyes traveled to the door, and for a moment, he saw Silva’s hulking figure there, in a flash like lightning, his eyes, glowing behind bars in the darkness. 

_But what will I do without you?_

Two days later, Illumi was knees-to-chin in Hisoka’s office chair, scrolling back and forth on his home screen as Hisoka typed away at his computer. He kept imagining the blast of Silva’s aura; powerful enough to create craters. How, even at the height of Illumi’s training, his needles would just bounce off of Silva’s Ren, sometimes with enough force to split a tree trunk. Every so often, Hisoka would read him a line of writing, ask ‘how’s this?’ and Illumi would make a sound of absent approval. 

Each sentence he heard made him mourn for the few moments of assurance, when he thought they might be able to expose his parents for what they’d done: after he’d cleaned his apartment, when he’d looked Hisoka in the eyes over his desk, when they’d made promises to each other in the tunnels. The memories felt frivolous and sloppy-- _of course that never would have worked_ , he kept thinking. But, at least, at the end of that plan, Illumi was the one who lost everything in the end. Now, he just had to sit and wait for Hisoka to be picked off. 

_And after? Will I crawl back to the Zoldyck estate?_

Images of all the different ways things could unfold were keeping Illumi awake at all hours; when he did manage to drift to sleep for a moment, he would only have nightmares. His eyes stung from exhaustion, and his body ached from projecting his Nen in search of Silva. He knew it was fruitless, as Silva’s Zetsu was nearly flawless, but each time a new person entered the building, his stomach would drop. 

Students, professors, presenters, all milling in and out of Dyer Hall as if nothing was wrong. If he concentrated, Illumi could feel their heartbeats, hear the blood moving through their veins. If Silva walked through the door, they might look his way, wonder who he was, but their pulses would stay sluggish, their footsteps ordinary. Professors might even recognize his father, greet him, and ask him about his recent research, and he’d stop and chat with his hands in his pockets, perhaps already sharpened for the kill. Silva always tapped his feet before jobs, vibrated with anticipation, holding his aura just below his skin to intensify the feeling. He’d never been stopped; no one would try to stop him. 

_The minute I feel him, I’ll swallow the drug,_ Illumi thought. Perhaps Chrollo had lied. Perhaps Number 9 would do nothing, or maybe it would kill him or take his Nen, or worse. But Illumi had no choice but to bank on the slim chance Chrollo was trustworthy. _He does want Hisoka dead after all._ The alternative was failure and death either way. 

Hisoka raised an eyebrow, knocked his knuckles against the wood of his desk. “Illumi? Hello?” 

Illumi turned his head to face Hisoka, his cheek flattened on his knee. “What?” he mumbled. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Each time he blinked, he felt a surge of pleasure, the pull to close his eyes and drift off. 

“Why don’t you show me how to project my aura? Then I can look for Silva and you can have a break?” 

“ _No,”_ Illumi snapped. “You need to stay in Zetsu.” No matter how he tried to soften them, all of Illumi’s words came out spat, with a razor’s edge. He saw Hisoka’s expression wobble each time.

Hisoka sighed, kneaded his temples, and closed his laptop. For the past two days, Illumi had holed up in the back of Hisoka’s classes, staring forward with eyes like a rabid dog’s. He knew Hisoka was probably tired of it; maybe he even wished Silva would come sooner so that it could be over. 

“Why don’t we go somewhere?” Hisoka tried. He’d tried it the evening before, too. Illumi had only shrugged him off. “What if we were wrong? What if your dad isn’t even coming?” There was a desperate whine in his voice. “It’s been two days since Almagest. If he’s as powerful as you say, why would he wait?” 

“I don’t _know,_ ” Illumi replied through gritted teeth. 

Hisoka deflated, folding back into his chair like a ragdoll. He dropped his voice down to a whisper, his words ghosts on his lips. “This is going to drive us apart more than anything they tried before.” 

Illumi’s face stung. Exhausted tears rushed to his eyes and he snapped into Zetsu. “Alright, fine,” he said. “I’ll stop trying to find him. I’ll stop trying to protect you since you want to die so badly.” 

Hisoka’s eyebrows twitched and he opened his mouth to respond.

At that moment, Illumi was hit with an overwhelming aura; so strong that even Hisoka braced his hands on the desk. “Illumi,” he croaked. His face had blanched. “Is that--”

“Stay here.” Illumi stood up and crossed to the door, seamlessly gathering his needles between his fingers. When he exhaled, he was doused in warm Ten. He pushed through the door and stood, square-shouldered in the hall. The students clutched at their heads and stomachs as they passed; though they couldn’t see the Nen, they could still feel its menace. It was a deep gray, curling into the hallway like fingers made of smoke. But Illumi couldn’t smell it; couldn’t tell if it was Silva’s.

He sucked his cheeks, keeping still, needles hidden beneath a long sleeve. He was lightheaded and throttled by heartbeat; bile gathered like a stone in his throat. 

With a loud crack, the window at the end of the hall snapped open, sending a gust of wind rushing down the hallway. It was so strong that it knocked phones and books out of loose hands and sent them clattering into the floor. A few students even lost their footing, looking around at their friends like wild rabbits. One student braced against the gale, rushed to the window with hair flattened to his forehead, and forced it shut. He turned, looking around with relief. 

The hall rustled quietly for a moment, as everyone gathered their dropped things, smoothed their clothing and hair. And then, it was filled with a nervous throng of questions and laughter-- ‘where did that wind come from,’ ‘man, my screen is busted…’ as the students resumed their treks to class. Catching some sidelong glares and stares, Illumi felt sick with nerves and heartbeat. As if blown away by the wind, the aura around him was fading to white, curling back and dissipating. There was still no sign of Silva. 

_What the hell was that?_

Chewing his lip and balling up his free hand to avoid picking at his cuticles, Illumi lingered for a few more minutes, paced to the end of the hall and poked around the corner. There was no trace of aura at all.

_It’s really gone._

Illumi pressed his hand to his chest, and let out a strangled breath as his phone vibrated in his pocket.

 _Hisoka._ “Everything good?” 

“Yes,” Illumi typed. Before he sent it, he looked up, back down the emptying hallway. It was almost two-thirty. _Hisoka doesn’t have a class._

Standing in the hallway, needles between his fingers, Illumi had felt crushed by fear-- the very feeling he’d left the Zoldycks to escape. Hisoka’s words were replaying in his mind.

He turned around and pushed back into Hisoka’s office. “Let’s go somewhere.” 

Hisoka’s face spread into a grin. “No Silva detection force?” 

“Fuck him,” Illumi’s face was burning, his smile was venomous. Chrollo’s vial was in one fist, his needles were in the other. The past two weeks had taught him that it didn’t matter who’d sent the wind or the aura, if it was a trap or a coincidence. _Hisoka is right._ Fear and division were all the Zoldycks wanted, and Illumi had already wasted two days catatonic at the thought of his father’s arrival. _No more._

  
  
  


“I’m jealous now that I know Chrollo got to show you the grimy parts of the city before me,” Hisoka said, dripping with false petulance. His eyes flashed as they clicked down the boulevard outside of his apartment. He was in a lavender dress shirt which clung to his chest and arms, and charcoal slacks which tapered at his ankles, emphasizing his flashy purple shoes. Illumi was on his arm in a black pantsuit, which Hisoka had just purchased for him at a shop Uptown. His hair was down, cascading over his shoulders. 

_Every night is my last,_ he thought as Illumi rolled his eyes. He could still feel the tension all over Illumi’s body, could see it in the stiffness in his gait and the cling between his eyebrows. But he was trying, pushing up his lips to smile, joking, and leaning his weight into Hisoka as they walked. 

If Hisoka was honest with himself, he could not deny the pit in his stomach at the thought of being killed by Silva Zoldyck. He’d seen the man before. Hisoka always prided himself on his bulk and figure, but he’d been eclipsed by Silva’s shadow. At the time, he’d found it comical. Now, he only hoped Silva would work slowly enough for him to process what was happening. _If I’m going to be killed, I want to feel every moment._ A fade to black made his hands shake.

Hisoka glanced at Illumi, followed the flutter of his hair and breathed. _It was worth it to know you._

And perhaps Illumi was stronger than he realized. Perhaps there would be a way out of this for both of them. Hisoka had always been lucky, after all.

“Where are we going?” Illumi finally asked. The prim limestone of the lower east had wound into dark-washed streets and neon signs. “The last time I followed a local I ended up at an abandoned church.” 

Hisoka hummed. “No, we’re not going that far…”

Nostrade’s looked exactly the same as it had seven years ago, the last time Hisoka had set foot inside -- the same blue neon sign, the same wooden door covered in bars, the same sticky floor of indiscernible color. It had been built into a gutted brothel, with a sunken main floor surrounded by enclosed booths and bars. The furniture was neo-Victorian, plush, tasseled and garish -- nearly everything was filthy but the light was low enough and the clientele strange enough that it scarcely mattered. In the back corner, there was a small stage which hosted various performers -- as a teenager, Hisoka had sometimes earned coins and roses using his sticky fingers to build impossibly high towers of cards. He and Chrollo had gotten high in the bathroom, swayed around with strangers. _Simpler times._

Tonight’s performer was a bald, heavily-tattooed man twirling several flaming, cast-iron batons, and he’d drawn quite the crowd. At the easy hour of eight o’clock, on a Tuesday no less, Nostrade’s was bursting with people, vibrating with music that sounded like a failing symphony concert, smelling of smoke, beer and fried food. Hisoka grinned and took a deep whiff, immediately feeling a decade younger. At his shoulder, Illumi was wide-eyed and smirking, posture relaxing as he took in the chaos. Hisoka swelled with pride.

“What is this place?” Illumi asked, eyebrows shooting up as the man tipped one of the batons over his open mouth. 

“I used to come here as a kid and sell,” Hisoka said. “I had hair down to my ass.” 

Illumi tore his eye away from the performer and cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“Oh yeah,” Hisoka hooked his hand into Illumi’s elbow and began leading him through the raucous crowd, now screaming and cheering for the fire-eater, who had settled into swallowing a third torch. 

In a few hours, they were both flush-faced and giggling, an empty bottle of malt liquor, shot glasses and lowballs languishing on the stained wooden table at their booth. The performer had finished, and the music crashed and hissed; people were dancing and shouting around them. Illumi was leaning into the dusty red plush of the square couch, hair mussed in the back. He'd taken off his jacket, leaving only a white silk camisole, which rippled over his chest as he animatedly recounted the story of his first four years at Yorknew-- the parties he’d attended, the classes he’d skipped, and the friends he hadn’t made. Hisoka was listening with sparkling eyes, marveling at how well his plans to loosen Illumi up had worked. Perhaps in a moment, he would drag kisses up Illumi's exposed throat, whisk him out of the booth to dance; and later, they would stumble home arm-in-arm, a tangle of tongue-tied confessions, a night with a sweeter end than their first. 

“That reminds me,” Illumi suddenly perked up. “Who invited you to The Cemetery?”

Hisoka tapped his chin, looking up at the cushioned ceiling. “Come to think of it…” he squinted, trying to strain the truth from the alcohol. “A man approached me in public and handed me the keycard and…” his frown deepened. _Is this a real memory?_ “It was my first year working at Yorknew, and I’d just gotten back from my first conference where I…” he started at Illumi. “Where I met your parents, and I thought it was weird because the man said--” 

“Any reject of the Zoldycks is a friend of ours,” Illumi finished. 

Hisoka’s eyes widened. “Shit…” he whispered, mind racing. “It was such a long time ago, but I remember thinking that there was something familiar and off about that man, kind of like when--” 

Before Hisoka could finish his thought, there was a knock on their table which made both men jump.

But it was only a girl in a vest and a peasant skirt with large eyes and bright blue hair pulled back into a yellow bandana. Under one arm, she was carrying a folding card table, and in the other, she had a thick leather-bound journal. When she moved, Hisoka caught the earthy scent of cut pages, the sour of binding glue. _Nen?_ Hisoka leaned forward. _Yes._ She was surrounded by a thin layer of pale aura. He knew Illumi saw it too; he’d made his face blank, reached over to squeeze Hisoka’s hand. His palm was slick with sweat. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” the girl said cheerfully. “I’m reading fortunes for a small fee. Care to have your fortune read?” 

Nothing sounded more entertaining to Hisoka in his drunkenness, but he looked to Illumi for approval. Illumi had narrowed his eyes and the muscles in his jaw were pulsing. “Sure,” he said finally, in the old flat tone Hisoka barely heard anymore. 

“Oh, great!” the girl clapped her hands together and unfurled her table, placing the book atop it. 

“Illumi, go,” Hisoka grinned. “I think I’d rather not know my fortune, but I’m dying to know yours.” 

Wary but compliant, Illumi scooted around the booth. 

“Alright,” said the girl, cracking her knuckles. “Now, I won’t look, but I need you to write your name, your birthday, and your blood type on a blank page in my book.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


ILLUMI ZOLDYCK

January 4, 1995

A

_An old idol, a young idol, and St. Peter find you at a crossroads, a heretic clinging to Dionysus._

_All are wolves; but one is tamed by your call, though the wine on his teeth can drown you._

_St. Peter will share his gospel, but you will remain true to your false god, who gives you peace._

_Your old faith will tear you apart and blind you, but you will pull the veil from your eyes._

_Surrounded by mysteries, you will take hold of Dionysus and tell him what is forbidden._

_Together, you seek to destroy the old church with a new covenant._

_Against the heart of your lover, you take St. Peter down from his cross and bewitch him._

_You learn his power and hold it in your fist as the key to your salvation._

_Predicted shocks will burn and break you before the window tears the trickster god._

_You seal your fate with a poisoned drink, flying fierce to avenge spilled words._

_Mind your numbers and remember your accomplice or there will be no more lies to tell._

_You alone cannot undo the power you chose: St Peter strikes at the final hour._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ajfidsjflisdefj penultimate chapter!!!!! can't believe it's almost done. i had to invent one more weird bar and include my favorite nen ability from canon for good measure.
> 
> heads' up- i know the chapters are taking longer to come out than before, but i'm going to predict about two weeks for the final one as i'm thinking it'll be double the length of my normal ones (about 8k words). plus, i want to go back through my posted chapters and make sure everything is just-so, so that i can feel like the project is 'wrapped up.' 
> 
> again, many thanks to everyone who has read this, supported me with comments and twitter dms-- i have had so much fun writing this and i hope everyone continues to enjoy it till the last hurrah :)
> 
> tell me what u thought in the comments ;)
> 
> <3


	20. Fortuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the past two nights, Hisoka and Illumi had dined like princes, and played like rats-- climbing up fire escapes, perching on rooftops mushy with water damage, being whipped by wind atop water tanks.

“I don’t want to  _ kill _ Hisoka, I want to  _ destroy _ him.” 

Chrollo had been fuming, shaking like a child in his apricot jumpsuit. He’d been staring at Netero through inch-thick glass, but the old man had convinced the guard to take a walk around the premises so that they could speak privately.

“The Zoldycks can do that for you,” Netero had replied knowingly, stroking his long beard. “A family of assassins from Padokea. The patriarch, Silva, has Yorknew’s balls in his fist.” Netero was suited and ponytailed, and even then, Chrollo had felt as if his advice was too quick, too calculated. Perhaps the old man had known that, whether by hubris or miscalculation, the plan to kill Hisoka Morow would blow up in Silva Zoldyck’s face. 

Netero knew Hisoka, after all-- knew how he slid through life like spilled oil.

Silva Zoldyck came to the prison when Chrollo was granted visitation. 

They sat around a table in the emptied commons and discussed killing a man in broad daylight-- hatched a years-long scheme to give Hisoka wealth, a name and a career, to lull him into a false sense of security, and then to pull the rug from underneath him. 

“What if it’s a lover who does it?” Netero suggested with a wry smile. “I know the man myself. That would destroy him in his final moments.”

_ What lover?  _ Chrollo had panicked at that. He’d wanted to see Hisoka’s career destroyed, not get another stranger involved. But when he started to protest, Netero pressed his foot so hard against Chrollo’s toes that they were purple for days.

Silva didn’t bat an eye. It seemed to the Zoldyck patriarch the most rational thing in the world. 

“You want him dead, don’t you?” Netero had said, when Silva left. “They won’t agree if it’s too much work.”

So it would be a lover. 

Their next meeting was a few weeks later. Kikyo had come this time: a willow of a woman with a beehive of black hair, blackout sunglasses obscuring her eyes.

“Will he do?” Silva flashed a photograph of a beautiful young person, with large empty eyes and a prim little mouth. “My fool of an eldest.” 

Chrollo frowned, thinking of the sand-headed politician who Hisoka had followed around like he’d hung the moon. He’d had the same emptiness behind his eyes. Hisoka wanted to fill the voids in people and then siphon himself away. Chrollo almost felt sorry for the Zoldyck boy. 

“Yeah. Hisoka will like him.” He’d agreed because it was true.

Silva nodded. “Perfect. He needs to be taught a lesson anyway. I’ve already placed him at the University, where Netero can look after him. A few months of prep, and we’ll get him in a room with Hisoka Morow. It should be extremely easy to manipulate Illumi into killing the target, he’s naturally suspicious, and we can do some work to break down his trust while we are prepping for the operation.” 

“Will he come back home after?” Kikyo asked, in a voice like a strangled bird. Above her glasses, her eyebrows were jammed together as if she was crying.

“Surely, he’ll have no choice after murdering his poor professor,” Silva replied smoothly. “He’ll never leave us again.” 

Memories of those days kept Chrollo awake each night that week, as he waited to hear back from the Paper Doll. When he was awake, he found his eyes fixed on the faint scars that rippled the backs of his hands. 

Like nearly everything else, the drug --Number 9-- had been Netero’s idea, a stolen power he’d written down in Chrollo’s book: a measure Netero said he had to take after failing to drive Hisoka and Illumi apart with true words, with Pariston’s glamour, with Kikyo’s stolen nightmares. Though, the very fact that Hisoka and Illumi had stayed by each others’ sides through everything Chrollo and the Zoldycks had put them through should’ve been enough for Chrollo to understand that none of his plans would work.

_ I should have just killed Hisoka myself. _

Instead, Chrollo had made a mess, and he had to clean it up.

As Chrollo had explained to Illumi in the basement, Number 9 was a steroid that would lend its user unlimited power for exactly sixty-six minutes. Illumi thought he would survive if he vomited before the end of his time limit-- a lie Chrollo had told to make the drug’s power seem plausible. The truth was that Number 9’s power had a goal: to kill a single person, pre-assigned, at the moment of its concoction.

And, at Netero’s prodding, Chrollo had designed a particular batch to help Illumi kill Hisoka. And, if Hisoka wasn’t dead after sixty-six minutes, Number 9 would take its revenge. In the basement of the church, Illumi had healed Chrollo’s burns. And in return, Chrollo had given him a drug that would kill him if he didn’t murder a man he loved. 

“Slowly and painfully,” Netero had said.

At the time he’d been introduced to the idea, Chrollo was sure, had been convinced, that Illumi would want to kill Hisoka-- that he, the Zoldycks and Netero, would all get what they desired. The dead professor, and the prodigal son, forced back home. Chrollo knew now, though, from his visits to Hisoka’s apartment, that Illumi wouldn’t. And so, he would die. 

The guilt of what he’d done was destroying him. Machi thought he was being dramatic.

“He probably dumped out that shit the minute you gave it to him. I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up.”

“No, he didn’t,” Chrollo insisted. “I know him. He trusted me.” 

“Huh,” Machi chewed her thumbnail. “Well, if that’s true, he’s even more sentimental than you are.”

“No,” Chrollo said. That’s what he’d thought at first, before he’d really looked. “He’s just desperate.” Illumi thought the drug would give him the power to take what he wanted, whatever that was. 

“Why don’t you just tell him, then?” Machi mumbled. 

“I can’t,” Chrollo spat. He couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t kill Hisoka himself.

Instead, Chrollo would match Illumi’s desperate measures with his own. 

  
  


Chrollo awoke on Thursday morning to the sound of his phone ringing. He’d been sleeping face-down, and his head ached with the memory of the beers he and Machi had shared the night before. But he shot to a seat and his heart leapt to his throat when he saw that he’d missed about twenty text messages from Kalluto Zoldyck. 

“Hello?” his voice was hoarse.

“Oh, you sound awful,” Kalluto’s high-pitched, flat clip. Chrollo could almost see the boy crossing his legs, smirking down at his nails. He was confident, so unlike his eldest brother.

“Just woke up,” Chrollo cleared his throat and stumbled out of bed to lean against the windowside desk and stare into the mirror. Behind his reflection, which was mostly dark circles and bedhead, Machi slept soundly under a pile of blankets.

“Whatever,” Kalluto said. “Did my brother give you any trouble when you went back?” 

“No,” Chrollo said shortly, ignoring the ache in his heart. “I think it scared him, though. Is your, uh, Nen working?” He’d asked Kalluto to place a tracker on Illumi, as a precaution. 

“No.”

“No?” 

“Kidding. It’s working. It doesn’t just break. It’s not a toy.” 

Chrollo held back a smart-assed remark, and instead asked, “Where is Illumi now?” 

“Ahh…” there was the faint sound of crinkling paper on the other line. “Umm… he’s still in Yorknew. Nothing new. Anyway, I found who you wanted me to find, and you were right. I can’t believe our parents would try to hide this from us, but good for Killua, I guess.” Kalluto’s supposed incredulity sounded like deadpan humor in his tone. “We’ll be back in Yorknew in, ah… well, probably by tomorrow.”

Chrollo breathed a sigh of relief, bid Kalluto goodbye and thank-you.

Against all odds, Chrollo’s desperate plan was coming together. Silva was growing angry with him, he knew, angry and desperate to finally pummel Hisoka to bits. It had been a humiliation, Chrollo imagined, for a world-class assassin to be bested by a college professor and his own son. 

Bested even after a years-long scheme to make Hisoka look guilty, and years of conditioning Illumi to doubt those closest to him. But everyone, including Chrollo, had underestimated Illumi, and now they were suffering the consequences.

  
  


**\---**

Since Tuesday night, Illumi had been keeping two things in his pocket at all times: the vial of Number 9 and his fortune, torn from the psychic’s diary. In moments when Hisoka was busy-- occupied by writing or grading, meeting with faculty in the room over, Illumi would squeeze the vial, reread the fortune countless times, heart fluttering. He didn’t know what kind of Nen ability the psychic really had-- perhaps the ‘fortune’ was only conjured from Illumi’s desires. But when he could not see Hisoka in front of him, when his heart burned a hole in his insides, when his throat felt squeezed by an invisible fist, thinking of the words brought him peace.

He’d paid nine-hundred and fifty jenny for the three prim stanzas. 

“This fortune is not fate,” the girl had said, proudly placing the paper into Illumi’s drink-steadied hands. Her eyes glowed eerily in the dim light. Her milk-white aura which smelled of glue and paper, singed Illumi’s fingers as he took the page. “Each stanza represents a week in the month. Since it’s the third week of September, some of the events may have already happened, but be careful if there are less than four stanzas-- it means your life will be in danger. But you can change it by studying the words and deciphering their warnings.”

Drunk, Illumi had laughed. The words had doubled in front of his eyes as he scanned them. They’d seemed like Greek to him then. 

The next morning, when he’d read them again at the island in Hisoka’s kitchen, he’d felt sick with excitement. The metaphors came together over the course of the day-- Hisoka as Dionysus, Chrollo as St. Peter. But most importantly, the fortune was only three stanzas, which meant Illumi’s survival wasn’t guaranteed. That meant Silva’s plan to trap him with the Zoldycks was bound to go wrong. 

_ I’ll die. Or I’ll save Hisoka and live free. _

“Hm?” Hisoka turned from his place at the stove, where he was making some kind of egg-based concoction. 

“Nothing,” Illumi had replied quickly.  _ I must’ve said something out loud.  _ “Just thinking.”

“Oh, your fortune? Did you figure it out?” Hisoka had skimmed over it at the bar and made some smart-ass remark about it being above his pay grade. Though, something about the gleam in his eye after reading made Illumi think he’d deciphered more than he was letting on.

“No,” Illumi huffed, folding up the fortune and stuffing it back into the pocket of his sweatshorts. 

Hisoka hummed and returned to his cooking. 

_ I’ll die.  _ He traced the paper, which was already beginning to soften from the repeated touches. Death was something Illumi had always thought about, at least once a day, since he was a child. He’d watched hundreds die, and he’d imagined himself dead painfully or peacefully, depending on his mood. 

Looking at Hisoka now, Illumi felt, for a moment, the crushing weight of a referential oblivion: every feeling he’d had in the past few weeks, every rush of affection, every smile, every touch, would simply cease to exist. The unease sat like a body slumped over his shoulders. He’d long practiced biting this fear away with more tangible morbidity: a lurid fantasy, a prick of self-harm. This time, he sat under it, let it weigh him down as he watched Hisoka glide around the counters in his apron. He stared at things he’d stared at before and tried to memorize each sight, an immortal snapshot collection of the morning-lit curls around Hisoka’s temple, the dip of his mouth at the corner, the fine bones moving in his hand as he gripped the skillet handle. 

Hisoka turned, and he was smiling. “I can feel you staring at me, Illumi. Are you hungry?” 

Illumi couldn’t speak at first; he only made a soft hiccuping sound, but Hisoka’s eyes were so bright, crinkled sweetly in the corners, that Illumi’s dark thoughts vaporized. He smiled back. “Yeah.” 

Hisoka chattered pleasantly as they went about the morning-- breakfast, dishes, even as Illumi dressed-- in a tan, silk tank-top of Hisoka’s and a pair of tightly-belted brown slacks.

“Oh, you can keep those. Brown is not my color, but,” he sidled up to Illumi wearing only a tight pair of boxer briefs, and kissed his cheek. “Everything looks divine on you.” 

Illumi made a plaintive squeak of protest and Hisoka kissed him again, on the mouth this time, cupping his face. Illumi found himself cataloging this moment as well; taking a picture with his mind.

During the drive to campus, Hisoka talked about what they could do after classes ended-- “A movie, maybe? Do you even like movies?”  
Illumi said that he did not like movies, never saw the point. 

“Alright, let’s go to an expensive restaurant and get the tasting menu on the roof, then. It’s a Wednesday, so places should have room… and if not, I can be very persuasive...” He schemed as he pulled into the shade of his parking spot. “And afterward we can do some…” he snickered as he turned the car off. “Drugs and trespassing or something.” 

“Drugs  _ and _ trespassing…” Illumi leaned back into the leather seat, blinking past the memory of the first time he’d sat here, rolling through a nauseous climax. Another memory, this and that, obliviated. He felt for the paper fortune, now nestled in the smooth sling of the slack pocket. The warm day and the dappled shade of the tree overhead were spilling in through the cracked windows. 

Hisoka laughed. “Exactly. I’ll see you in a few.” He leaned down to press a kiss into the back of Illumi’s hand.

Since he’d become Hisoka’s round-the-clock bodyguard, Illumi had been waiting in Hisoka’s car for a few minutes so that they weren’t seen arriving on campus together. Though, today, when Hisoka released his kiss, a trail of aura trickled from the corner of his mouth to Illumi’s hand. 

“We’ll be connected,” Hisoka glinted, winking an eye. 

Illumi had wanted him to stay in Zetsu, but he was mesmerized watching the thin pink Nen string stretch up the stairs, past the columns and through the tall double-doors of Dyer Hall. The end felt warm, a lingering kiss, on the back of Illumi’s hand. Illumi stayed still, following the aura to the doors and back until five minutes had ticked by on the clock. Only when he was thumping up the stone stairs in the new boots he’d bought Tuesday afternoon, which were rubbing at his ankles, did he shudder at the thought of the aura string snapping and Hisoka disappearing from his purview. He walked faster. 

\---

Friday was the sixth day without any sign of Silva Zoldyck. 

For the past two nights, Hisoka and Illumi had dined like princes, and played like rats-- climbing up fire escapes, perching on rooftops mushy with water damage, being whipped by wind atop water tanks. 

Even as he hunched over notes on his desk, blinked into the blue light of his computer screen, Hisoka could still hear Illumi’s thrilled voice, fever-pitch, “I’ve never done this before!” as he jumped to pull himself onto the hanging lowest step of a half-broken firestair. He was strong, pulled and climbed with the grace of a gymnast, took in the city like a child at the top of a hill. A prodigal son, a former assassin, docile, giddy and breathless at his side. Now, curled and frowning in the lone visitor’s chair, palming something in his pocket and chewing the inside of his lip.

_ That fortune has really got him preoccupied.  _

Hisoka hadn’t told Illumi, but Wednesday morning he’d awoken to a text from a blocked number:

_ “As usual, you’ve made yourself too easy to track down. All the better for me. I hope you enjoyed my magic party favor. She’s a favorite of the Zodiacs, a reject of the Zoldycks… I guess your visit made me soft. Hope you make it out alive so that I can have you someday. Hugs, Rat” _

_ A reject of the Zoldycks.  _ He could see Pariston’s empty, smiling eyes as he deleted the text before rolling over to pepper Illumi’s sleeping face with kisses.  _ Wealthy people have way too much power.  _

  
  


“Hisoka,” Illumi stood, flattened his palms to Hisoka’s desk with a soft thump. If Hisoka didn’t know better, he’d say Illumi looked menacing in his black jacket, his hair falling in a curtain over one eye, and the other sparking like a just-lit wick. “What if instead of going anywhere in particular, we just got into your car and… drove away?” 

There was something to Illumi’s posture, his sharp, tight shoulders, the wildness between his brow, in the curve of his lip, that made unease rise in Hisoka’s throat. He put down his pen. The room was thick with silence. “Why… do you say that now?” 

“I dunno,” Illumi said. “I want to go. I want to drive away with you.” 

Hisoka’s heart started beating into his throat and his stomach curled the way it did before performances in his youth: a bare, sick thrill. “Okay…” he said slowly, closing his laptop and standing up.  _ Whatever you want.  _ “Okay, we’ll go.” He could cancel his classes. It didn’t matter.

Illumi nodded, took a few steps backward to fall back into his chair, flushed and pleased. Hisoka watched him warily as he gathered his things. Illumi was smiling softly and breathing slowly, staring at some fixed point on the wall. One of his fingernails was digging into the arm of the chair. His throat was bobbing. 

“Hisoka,” Illumi said again, straightening up. “Hisoka, I think--” he looked quickly to the door and then back at Hisoka. “I think I love you.” 

Hisoka dropped his tote with a thud, and its contents spilled all over the desk. “What?” He felt dizzy. 

“I love you,” Illumi repeated, standing and sliding around the desk, crowding Hisoka back into his chair. Hisoka sat down hard, and looked up at Illumi, who was standing over him, hair still obscuring most of his face. Hisoka blinked, and each blink got thicker and thicker until he realized that he was crying. 

Not just crying-- sobbing. Head hot and buzzing. He clapped a hand over his mouth to hold back hiccups. 

_ I love you. _

Not from Chrollo on the floor of the church, face smushed into the dirt.

Not from Pariston on some empty night, teeth around a cigarette. 

But Illumi, here in front of him.

“Okay,” Hisoka half-swallowed the word as he dug his heels into the floor. Illumi’s one visible eye was fixed on him. “Okay, okay, I--” Illumi’s face twisted; a barely-visible tear tracked down his cheek. 

“I love you too,” Hisoka said. “I love you.” The words boiled, rushed like a geyser down his chin. 

“I’m sorry,” Illumi slurred, eyes darting back to the door before he tipped forward to grip Hisoka’s shoulders. “I wish--” he shuddered. “I wish things were different. I wish we could go; I wish there was a place to go where we wouldn’t be found. I have dreams and dreams and dreams of driving away with you, into forever, and never coming back.” He raked a shaking hand over his eyes and nose and cursed. “I-- My father will come. And when he does, he will take you quickly. But I have-- I have a plan to save you. I can’t tell you exactly how it will be. But I need you to know that I’m not just going to let him kill you. I’m going to try--” 

“Illumi,” Hisoka interrupted, face still hot with tears. A sort of melancholy joy was filling his center, flooding him bittersweet. “I trust you. Remember? We promised. I promised my life to you.” He gripped Illumi’s hands on his shoulders. “It’s worth it to me, just to have known you.” 

Illumi’s face relaxed, and he lowered himself down into Hisoka’s lap, pressed his lips to Hisoka’s collarbone. “Alright,” he whispered. 

Hisoka rubbed his cheek against the crown of Illumi’s head and just sat there for a while, taking sopping breaths and hearing Illumi say  _ I love you  _ over and over in his memory. 

When he could speak without crying, Hisoka broke the silence. “What direction should we drive, Little Mouth?” 

Illumi sighed, leaned back to slip out of his jacket and spread his legs to straddle Hisoka’s thighs. Hisoka leaned his head back as Illumi ran his tongue up the curve of his jaw, nipping at his earlobe.

“Very naughty…” Hisoka mumbled, feeling his heartbeat slow. He felt Illumi laugh.

Within minutes, Illumi’s mouth was everywhere; and Hisoka was biting on his lip to keep from crying out. 

Hisoka sweated off the last of his panic as Illumi unraveled him on the desk, one firm hand pressed into his belly, the other gripping the inside of his thigh.  _ I love yous  _ spilled more and more easily from Hisoka’s lips with each dip of Illumi’s tongue;  _ I love yous  _ for Illumi, who’d seen him scheming, who knew his worst sins, who still saved his life and loved him. Between those sacred words, the coaxed, staggered breaths, the sound in Hisoka’s mouth was  _ Illumi.  _

By the time he finished, hot down Illumi’s humming throat, Hisoka couldn’t speak at all. His hands shook as he refastened his pants, and Illumi slumped to his knees on the floor, wedged between Hisoka’s thighs and the desk chair. “Good?” Illumi mumbled, looking up. His eyes were feathersoft, still red from crying, his mouth was upturned in a sheepish smile. 

“Uh-huh,” Hisoka breathed out, kicking his legs up over the desk and sliding into a wobbly stand on the other side. “You still wanna just… drive away?” 

A rueful laugh came from under the desk. “We can  _ try,  _ I guess. To be honest, I thought I felt my father, which is why--”

“Don’t say it,” Hisoka put his hand up as he reached for the door. “Let me preserve the fantasy that you confessed through sheer desire.”

Illumi made a noise. “Where are you going?” 

“Oh, just to the faculty restroom. I need to clean up a bit.” 

Hisoka was out the door before his shadow could get to his feet. 

The far wall of the faculty restroom was lined with windows; with the bright sunlight streaming in and burning through the glass, the whole porcelain room steamed humid as a sauna. Already cropping up a sweat and still red-faced from Illumi’s handiwork, Hisoka squinted at himself in the mirror, ran his fingers under the faucet. Just as his fingertips brushed his hairline, a sharp woody smell punctured the heat. Hisoka paused. 

The wind hit him before he processed the shattering glass, exploding around him, tearing his arms and shoulders as it flew. 

“Oh,” he said, licking blood from his lip. He made eye contact with his reflection as strong fingers closed around his collar. 

Hisoka didn’t look. His nostrils were clogged with aura.

“You’re not going to scream?” said a gravelly voice. 

_ Silva.  _ Hisoka already knew. Illumi’s father had propelled himself through a third-story window, which had shattered silently and now lay in ruin on the tile. Hisoka’s reflection in the mirror had not changed, despite the huge knuckles jammed into his neck.

His stomach fluttered when Illumi appeared in a flash next to him, black aura seeping from his eyes and the corners of his mouth. 

“Silva,” Illumi said, a billow of Ren pouring from his tongue as he spoke. The room was quiet for a moment; Hisoka felt like he was choking. Illumi was looking through him, the humanity gone from his eyes.

He threw a needle, but Silva only batted it aside. He threw another. 

With a laughing grunt, Silva jerked backward and Hisoka reached out for Illumi with his aura, caught Illumi’s hand with it, a tiny pink string. Illumi shuddered at the touch, and then Hisoka was shooting through the air so quickly that it felt like daggers against his cheeks. He burst through the glass window and the jagged edges tore through his skin. But his aura held. They were connected, Hisoka and Illumi, and through the connection Hisoka could feel Illumi’s pulsing horror as his lover flew to a sure death, folded over Silva’s shoulder.

Then, with a sudden burst of pain at the tip of his fingers, Hisoka’s vision started to gray in the corners. He heard Silva huff, he felt himself hit plush, heard the hum of an engine. The last thing Hisoka saw was Illumi plummeting toward him with blood splattered down his front, but it was only his imagination. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. On to the next!


	21. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Illumi could barely hold back a scream of rage as he raced back to Hisoka’s office. 

_I’ve already fucked up._ His fingers sizzled with bloodlust, a force so disgusting that ordinary students would steer clear of the entire wing unconsciously. 

Illumi’s desperation had bloomed into carelessness. He’d left the vial, the drug he was supposed to swallow the moment he sensed Silva, in the pocket of his jacket, on the floor behind Hisoka’s desk. Half-an-hour before, he thought he’d felt his father for a split second, and then he’d lost the scent, and then he’d lost himself in Hisoka’s crying eyes. _Hisoka._

Illumi had been impotent against his father. At least Hisoka had thought quickly, connected them with enough aura to guide Illumi’s needle, doused with sleep, into his skin. 

In his rage, his hope, Illumi had buried the needle deep. As long as Silva didn’t discover what Illumi had done, Hisoka would sleep for hours. Illumi had a feeling that Silva, Chrollo, Netero, wanted Hisoka awake as he died-- otherwise he’d already be dead. 

Even from Hisoka’s office, Illumi could still feel Hisoka’s aura, pale and gray in unconsciousness, and Silva’s, which billowed and raged. Silva was moving quickly, driving a car, or being driven, but not so quickly that Illumi couldn’t catch them. And they weren’t driving toward any airport. 

_They’re not going back to Kukuroo Mountain._

Illumi took a deep breath, Number 9 in his fist once again.

_I have time._

_And, as long as Chrollo was telling me the truth, I have power._

Illumi hissed as he uncorked the vial, pressed it to his lips, and swallowed. The liquid was thicker than he expected, coating his throat, filling his mouth with the acrid taste of blood and paint. Illumi gagged, held his palm against his neck and forced himself to swallow. 

He remembered the fortune.

_You seal your fate with a poisoned drink._

Illumi pressed his fingers to the warm place on his palm where Hisoka’s aura had been. 

He’d sealed his fate, whatever it was.

The drug metabolized near-instantly, spreading like fire through Illumi’s veins. His eyes widened as his aura surged under his skin and thickened around him. It wasn’t bloodlust, which was only fierce in its destruction. No, this power was precise, deadly. His senses expanded, filled Hisoka’s office. As if his aura had fingers, he could feel every notch in the floorboards, every grain of texture in the wall. Where Hisoka’s scent had been faint before, it now overwhelmed his senses, and crashed against Silva’s rot. 

Illumi spread his palms and stared, transfixed for a moment, at the Ten which burst from them like floodwater. 

_Chrollo didn’t lie._

Illumi almost smiled. _I’ll have to track him down and thank him when this is over._

But for now, he had to rescue Hisoka, who was growing further and further away. _I’ll need help._ Illumi’s thoughts whistled like thrown knives through his head. _Help._

Quiet as an expert arrow, Illumi grabbed Hisoka’s car keys, which had fallen from his tote bag, and darted back to the bathroom. Without having to think, he put a hand out and used Ren to blast the jagged glass clean from the window frame. As the glass fell, Illumi plunged after it, landing silently even as the ground cracked under the weight of his Nen. 

Even if his needle in Hisoka’s palm had bought him some time, Number 9 had an expiration. He’d need to vomit it up in an hour. His accomplices would be first-come-first-served. He closed his eyes. 

_Two beating hearts. Grounds staff. A man and a woman. Thirties._

With the drug, Illumi’s power was effortless. The groundskeepers were Illumi’s with a flick of his wrist. Two clean needles to the backs of the heads; they didn’t even bleed. And unlike usual, their eyes remained sharp, their shoulders taut. Their gaits were natural. Getting them to follow him was only a matter of desiring it for a split second.

_I need to catch up with Silva._

Illumi went for Hisoka’s car, clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a short sob as he sat in the passengers’ seat. It smelled like Hisoka-- a mix of sweet and musk, a smell which had filled Illumi with anxiety when he’d first encountered it. With ease, Illumi coaxed the man into the drivers’ seat and as they began to move, he noticed that both of his assistants were glowing with a weak Ten. 

_Fifty minutes._

They were speeding. Illumi sat up and stared out the window. He could feel the anger, the anxiety of the drivers around him as they weaved through the traffic. Normally, he’d need eye contact to complete a hypnosis without needles, but with Number 9, all he had to do was will it, and cars and pedestrians parted like the Red Sea. 

With a lurch of nausea, Illumi began to recognize the path they were taking-- south and west, bouncing over broken streets and under rickety overpasses, toward a rusted bridge and Chrollo’s church. Illumi caught sight of one of the abandoned buildings he and Hisoka had traipsed through just two nights ago and he wanted to scream. 

“Faster,” he ordered the driver, who leaned into the gas pedal and careened over potholes past a clump of city traffic. 

_Forty minutes._

They crossed the bridge as the herald of practically every car on the road, and Illumi was beginning to feel light-headed with anticipation. Hisoka was still asleep, but his presence was drawing closer and closer. Illumi let out another surge of Ren and felt the urge to laugh. _What am I doing?_ He thought. _Even with this power, can I even stand up against my father--_

There was another presence at the church, all of a sudden. Something just as powerful as his father, but less driven. Illumi leaned toward it, letting go of Hisoka for a moment to concentrate. It was familiar. It smelled sweet, but different from the artificial sugar of Hisoka’s, like flowers. 

_Zeno._

Illumi’s blood, even thick and hot as it was running, went cold. 

He sat up in his seat, had his driver roll down the windows and raised his arms, reaching out with fingers of aura into every car behind him. They followed his influence, he could feel at least thirty eyeballs, shiny and wet, glazing and turning toward him. Zeno’s aura stuttered, as if the old man had noticed his grandson’s power. 

And then Hisoka woke up. 

_It must’ve been Zeno._

Illumi had no time to panic, and no need. The church steeple was rising in the distance and his aura was rattling from his pores so insistently that blood was seeping from between his teeth. 

_Hisoka is awake._ He felt Hisoka take stock of his surroundings and then his aura warped in explosive pain, trickling and then flaring as he bit his tongue and curled into himself. 

Illumi yelled, pressed the heels of his palms to his ears as they rang loudly enough that his brain felt like it was vibrating. _Hisoka, I’ll be there._ Tears stung in Illumi’s eyes and he gritted his teeth. Smoky bloodlust filled the car and blood dripped down his chin. 

Illumi wondered for a moment if the power might kill him; he didn’t care if it did. He felt Hisoka’s aura screech again as pain ripped through his body. He whipped his needles from his pouch. As soon as they reached the church, he would bury them in the heads of all the drivers he’d gotten to follow him. He’d arrive with an army. 

  
Hisoka woke against a wall with a pounding head and Silva Zoldyck looming above him, like a boulder at the top of a cliff. His mouth tasted like metal; his vision was slightly blurry, as if he’d been hit in the head. Each time he breathed, dust filled his lungs. He coughed, dragging the collar of his shirt over his mouth. “Hey,” he said, grinning behind his hand. “Are you going to kill me now?” 

Silva stared at him for a long while before replying. “Yes, but not right away. First, I want you to suffer.” 

“Aw,” Hisoka stuck out his lip and crossed his arms. He wouldn’t even try to get away-- he’d seen how Silva had dealt with Illumi back at the university. 

_Besides, I’ve never been in a bind like this before…. though, I can’t sense any Nen--_

“My Nen would just destroy you, so I’ve been forced to take a more… traditional route,” Silva explained. Hisoka looked around and coughed again as his vision stabilized. The room was dark, lit only by a flickering naked bulb, familiar. A table lay overturned in the center, surrounded by broken glass, a crumpled sheet, and-- 

_This is the church basement._ Cruel irony.

Hisoka glanced back up at Silva, who was smiling lightly, holding a pair of pliers. He gave a wobbly smile back, and swallowed as Silva squatted in front of him. _I’ve experienced a lot of things… but not this._ _Maybe if I close my eyes, I can imagine he’s Illumi…_

“You’re not going to try to get away?” Silva said, leaning forward and pressing his forearm to Hisoka’s neck. 

“No,” Hisoka rasped. “I’m not a fool.” 

“Hm,” Silva said, lifting Hisoka’s hand to the mouth of the pliers and clamping down on the end of one of his nails. 

Hisoka gritted his back teeth, let his eyes close, and thought of Illumi as Silva ripped the nail clean off. He inhaled sharply at the burn, which climbed up the veins in his arms like venom. But he stayed quiet as Silva tore at the rest of his fingers. He imagined Illumi holding the pliers, smiling as he worked, stroking his back and humming. _Illumi._ He could almost smell him, smoke and rain. The thumb nail cracked viciously in half, and when Silva drove the pliers into Hisoka’s nail bed, his vision dotted white and he bit his tongue, chest jumping against Silva’s arm with close-mouthed gasps. Silva took the other hand.

_Illumi…_ Hisoka thought, and smiled, flashes of pain knocking his head against the back wall. His throat hurt. It was being crushed. He could see Illumi’s face bright in his shattering vision. His eyes, staring blankly down as he tore. _I love you. That hurts._

When Hisoka’s hands were mangled and bloody, smudging the floor as they lolled **,** Silva drove a foot into his side. _This is more like it,_ Hisoka thought, feeling a back tooth loosen as he hit the floor. “Fight me!” Silva growled, kicking him again. Something cracked. 

“No,” Hisoka spat, keeping his eyes closed. 

“Fight!” Silva demanded again. Hisoka tongued his loose molar and braced himself for another blow, but it didn’t come. Instead, he was hit with a wall of aura, which stung his exposed skin and smelled of--

He opened his eyes to the dim light of the basement just in time to see Illumi, oozing blood and inky aura, fling a roundhouse kick into his father’s jaw. His face was twisted with rage, eyes fully black, stretched wide and seeping. 

_No--_ Hisoka thought, rolling to get a better view as his heart rate picked up. Silva staggered as he activated his Ten, and dove back toward his son with a yell on his lips. 

“Illumi!” Hisoka cried, but it came out a hoarse whisper. His head skidded painfully against the floor. 

To Hisoka’s surprise, Illumi dodged Silva easily, silently, and leapt up like a cat, driving his elbow down into the back of his father’s head. Silva let out a strangled laugh as his head was met with another kick and his face slammed, bloody against the ground.“Finally, Illumi,” Silva said, his voice muffled by the concrete. “You’ve returned to the fold.” 

At this, Illumi froze, and a jolt of anguish crossed his face. The whites of his eyes returned and he looked back at Hisoka for a split second. “No,” he whispered. “I wo--” 

The room shook violently as something seemed to detonate outside, and the clamor of footsteps rumbled overhead. All at once, about fifteen shadowy figures burst into the basement-- and when they stepped under the naked bulb, Hisoka saw that they were strangers, dressed for work, with needles sticking from the backs of their heads. 

Illumi’s soldiers. They moved more fluidly than they had in Almagest; they looked around like birds, glowing with Ten. Though he knew Illumi had control of them, Hisoka felt menace, felt their eyes lock onto his prone figure. 

Amidst the chaos, Illumi loosened his hold on Silva just enough for the man to wrestle himself to a crouch and gather a large orb of aura in his fist. Silva reared back and launched for his son. Hisoka felt a scream bubbling in his throat when, instead of dodging, Illumi leaned into the orb it with his own Ren, skidding backward as he took it into his hands. _How is he…_

Finally, Silva overpowered Illumi, and knocked him to the ground as his Nen shredded the skin of Illumi’s hands. Illumi gritted his teeth, back scraping along the concrete. He was pushing back, brow contorted. 

Hisoka was so fixated on Illumi’s fight for his life that he did not notice that two of Illumi’s soldiers had approached him until he could feel the brush of fabric on his foot. The closest soldier raised a hand, sharpened into a claw. 

Hisoka scrambled away, narrowly avoiding being struck, and saw Illumi surge into his father, forcing him back and shouting, “Stop!” 

Ren erupted from Illumi’s lungs as he yelled, and both of the soldiers fell to the ground.

Hisoka exhaled. His fingers throbbed against the floor. 

Silva flew toward Illumi again, but this time, Illumi flung a handful of needles, which buried themselves in his father’s thick neck. Silva stood, and then swayed, and then fell face-down onto the ground just as three more soldiers approached Hisoka with gleaming eyes. 

“No!” Illumi yelled again, springing to guard Hisoka and sending blasts of Ren toward them, knocking them onto their backs like beetles. Illumi took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and all of the remaining soldiers fell to the ground, glass-eyed. Silva lay among them, distinguishable only by his hulking frame and the needles protruding from his neck and forehead. Hisoka could see all of their chests fluttering with breath-- miraculously, Illumi had kept to his vow not to kill. 

Illumi’s eyes darted toward the entrance to the basement, surveyed the fallen crowd, and then dropped to his knees, clutching his head. “Hisoka,” he breathed, finally. “Hisoka.” He crawled to Hisoka’s side, staring in horror at his bloody fingers, the bruises beginning to form at his neck.

“I’m okay,” Hisoka whispered. “Just a little sore.” In reality, Hisoka’s body was screaming; he was nauseous from the memory of the torture. 

“Yeah,” Illumi breathed. “I took something… I need to--” his eyes widened and he doubled over, jamming his middle finger into his mouth, reaching into his throat. 

“Took what?” Hisoka gasped. “What do you--” 

Illumi convulsed once and then vomited a stomachful of black bile and blood. He sighed when he was finished, as if relieved, and then his mouth spread into a smeared smile. “Hisoka,” he said again, looking up. His voice was a featherlight whisper. “Ah… I don’t… feel well…” 

When the words left his lips, the color drained from Illumi’s face and he crumbled, folding over his knees. 

“Illumi,” Hisoka forced himself upright, ignoring the pain spreading to his shoulders, across his stomach and jaw. With a blood-slick hand, he gripped Illumi’s limp arm and heaved him into his lap. Illumi wasn’t wounded, but his breathing was high and rapid, his eyes slitted, his face sheet-white. “Illumi,” Hisoka said again, curling over him, searching for something to fix. “Illumi what happened?” 

Illumi’s eyes flickered open. “I t-took…” he sputtered, blood wetting his lower lip. “Ah, it hurts…” 

_This wasn’t supposed to happen._

Hisoka reached for his aura, but only a thin trickle left his hand and his wounds throbbed.

“I’m…gonna...” Illumi’s lips barely moved. He reached up for Hisoka’s face, but his hand fell limp. “It’s okay…” his head fell to the side.

_It was supposed to be me._

Silva stirred. Hisoka’s breath left him and he gathered Illumi up into his arms, guarding him with his body. “Illumi,” he said again, eyes darting toward Silva, who was pushing himself to a stand, letting out rasped breaths. _No._

_No._

Hisoka squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in Illumi’s still chest. A low sob thrummed in his throat. 

Silva’s strike never came. After a minute of suspended time, blank thoughts, Hisoka looked up to see that the Zoldyck patriarch was once again on his back, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, a huge, gaping wound in his chest. Standing over him was Chrollo, an open book in one hand and Silva’s blood coating the other. His face was pale and sweaty with shock.

“You--” Hisoka started. Then he noticed the rest of the room. 

Lingering in the dark corner stood a battered old man with a shock of gray hair and crossed arms. Next to him were three stone-faced children: one with pale white hair and eyes like Silva’s, and two tiny, spitting images of Illumi. 

Hisoka swallowed, his lips parted, but his mind was blank. In his arms, Illumi was cold. _Help him,_ he wanted to yell, but he couldn’t produce any sound. His hands were shaking.

Recovering from his murder and stepping over Silva’s body, Chrollo regarded Hisoka with cold eyes. His lip curled when he saw Illumi, and then trembled. “Is he--”

“No,” Hisoka suddenly insisted, gripping Illumi tighter. He couldn’t feel a heartbeat. _He can’t--_

Chrollo knelt down and Hisoka scuttled back, away from him, dragging Illumi’s feet along the ground. “Don’t touch him.” 

Chrollo recoiled, eyebrows knit. He put up a hand, and the white-haired child trudged solemnly to his shoulder, leading one of the black-haired children --a girl, with long, straight hair-- by the hand. They both avoided looking at Silva.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Chrollo said, through gritted teeth. “Killua.” 

“What are you--” 

The boy turned to the girl and spoke. “Alluka, heal my brother.” 

Hisoka’s eyes widened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!!! 
> 
> If you want more of a concrete 'ending' -- the epilogue next chapter will tie up some loose ends. (I'll also include some trivia and acknowledgements in the authors' note!)
> 
> If you're comfortable with ~ambiguity~ you can stop here.
> 
> Thank you so much to those who have supported me in writing this. This is my longest finished product ever, and though it's not perfect, I'm very proud to have created it and I'm proud to have had the opportunity to share it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed.


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a way, nothing had changed for Hisoka.
> 
> But then, everything had changed. 

“So,” said Hisoka, crossing his legs and leaning over his desk to grin at Illumi, who was sitting in his usual chair, with his usual perfect posture, in a usual outfit of a cropped turtleneck sweater and cycling shorts. His skin was pearly, his eyebrows neat, his nails manicured. He was smiling wryly. “How exactly do you plan to graduate with these grades?” 

“I don’t know, Professor,” Illumi feigned a pout and cocked his head, birdlike. “I guess I was hoping you could help me out.” 

Hisoka stood up, pressing his hands to the wood of the desk. “I won’t make it easy for you…” 

“Shit--” Illumi’s phone buzzed from the waistband of his bike shorts just as Hisoka was pressing his lips to the hollow below his ear. He slid the phone out, held it in front of his face. “It’s Killua. Sorry.” 

Hisoka smiled and leaned back, busied himself with looking around his office for something that could be unspeakably repurposed. The Religious Studies department chair had recently allowed him to move into a larger office, one that could accommodate the book and trinket collection he’d donated to the university when he’d just arrived. _Surely there’s something among these little things that could fit inside…_

He looked up to see that Illumi was smiling on the phone. Killua’s voice was booming brightly from the other end.

In a way, nothing had changed for Hisoka. Chrollo Lucilfer had disappeared from his life once again. He still had his job, his wealth. In exchange for Hisoka’s silence on the matter of Nen, Zeno Zoldyck had agreed to pick up the financial slack Netero’s imprisonment had created. Hisoka was still working on an ethnography project for the Glam Gas summer conference, which was coming up in three months. He was still working with Illumi, his research assistant and boyfriend. 

But then, everything had changed. 

Illumi’s father had been killed, and his family was undergoing something of a reshuffle. Hisoka heard from Pariston Hill that Netero had hoped for this outcome-- he’d wanted all along to swoop in and surpass the Zoldyck influence in Yorknew; he’d hoped Chrollo’s plans would be the key to this end. But, thanks to Hisoka, Netero’s ankles were heavy on Fire Island. 

More important, though, than the matter of Yorknew criminal politics, was the matter of the three young Zoldyck siblings, who Zeno had asked Hisoka to look after while he ‘sorted out Kikyo.’ 

“I’m not going to _kill_ her, if that’s what you think,” Zeno had clarified with a little too much joy in his voice. “She’ll just be… quite inconsolable.” 

“I don’t care about that,” Hisoka replied truthfully. “It’s really--”

“Oh, the kids won’t need much. Just make sure they don’t run off for now. I’m sure Illumi would appreciate it.” 

Hisoka had had to agree. 

So, Killua, Kalluto, and Alluka had moved into Hisoka’s living room, and life had gone on. 

And then there was Illumi, whose years-long role as listless, alcoholic, failing student had been replaced by begrudging research assistant, vigilante detective, Nen teacher, and model older brother, in a matter of months. The process had killed him, and it had revived him.

For weeks after the incident, Illumi hadn’t been able to sleep for more than a few hours without waking up screaming, drenched in sweat. He dreamt about dying, about Hisoka dying, about his siblings, his father-- but the nightmares became fewer and farther between; he learned to control them with Nen. 

Slowly, Illumi returned to his classes, to his research with Hisoka, which had shed its Zoldyck family elements, and was now centered around the occult-murder-cults dedicated secretly to Nen users across the world. Rather than a revenge fantasy, the project had become an inside joke between them. Though, unbeknownst to Zeno, even to Illumi, Hisoka had kept all the evidence he’d compiled on the Zoldyck murders in a thumb drive between his mattresses. _You never know when you might need it._

Every night, Hisoka and Illumi found themselves piled up on the couch, in the kitchen, surrounded by food and children, laughter, a domestic normalcy that was bizarre as it was heartwarming. 

Chrollo had apparently regaled Killua with the tale of Illumi’s all-night search in Yorknew, which he’d observed disguised as the Zoldyck heir with Glamour, and all of Illumi’s effort and investigation against his family, and now the three youngsters were attached to their eldest brother’s hip, vying for his attention -- the exact opposite of what the Zoldycks and Netero had intended. 

There were still some questions left unanswered-- someone would fill the gap left by Silva and Netero. Chrollo might return, older and wiser, and more dangerous, with less prideful allies. But, for now, Hisoka and Illumi lived as two men in love, who had looked death in the face and survived. And, Hisoka rested easily at night, knowing he’d been right about everything all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgements
> 
> There are so many people I owe this project to, most of all, everyone who has read it! 
> 
> Specifically, I’d like to thank Caleb, Tiana, Eris, An, and Cloud who have supported the project since its earlier days and talked to me endlessly about my ideas for it. I couldn’t have completed this without y’all!!!!! 
> 
> Now onto the next thing… :) 
> 
> Up My Sleeve Trivia
> 
> 1\. Yorknew University was inspired by the University of Chicago in Illinois, USA! They even have tunnels, and a scandal where a religious studies professor was murdered in a bathroom.  
> You can read about the case here: https://www.chicagomag.com/Chicago-Magazine/September-2018/The-Cold-Case-of-a-University-of-Chicago-Professors-Murder/
> 
> 2\. I named Dyer Hall after the infamous witch Molly Dyer, the restaurant Laveau after Marie Laveau of New Orleans, and Houdini Bakery after Harry Houdini, the famous magician who had some quite-Hisoka-esque qualities  
> 3\. ‘The Cemetery’ bar was based on a real Hookah bar I went to while I was studying abroad in Russia, which was illegally zoned in a gutted penthouse apartment. Mostly they just had hookah and Jenga there, though.  
> 4\. Most of you probably guessed this but, ‘Palmxstry’ was Palm Siberia (and she’s still helping Hisoka and Illumi with their research!)  
> 5\. Chrollo was the gray-eyed student who returned Illumi’s phone to Hisoka after Illumi left it in the Dyer commons -- he also sent Illumi the text (which Illumi never read) that Hisoka snooped on… just another failed effort to break Hisoillu up.  
> I’ll add to this if I think of more…

**Author's Note:**

> Gen Notes: Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> A lot of the material for this fic was cooked up while I listened to these two playlists on YouTube. Listening while you read may ~augment~ your reading experience, if you're into that kind of thing:
> 
> "we drink the poison our minds pour for us and wonder why we feel so sick." by ssilvics https://youtu.be/sb237cjXjA  
> "an unorthodoxly pretentious dark academia playlist" by mblue https://youtu.be/WgNmqVRC4l8
> 
> Feedback = my eternal love and dedication.
> 
> -wyn <3
> 
> PS! my twitter is @antkidu and i’m rly active on there follow me :)


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